A Welcome Distraction
by starhawk2005
Summary: Allison's tired of being the 'good girl'. And Dean's available. And everything goes well...until Dean's world comes crashing in on Allison's safe, sane existence.
1. Chapter 1

**A Welcome Distraction **

**Author: starhawk2005**

**Summary: Allison's tired of being the 'good girl'. And Dean's available. And everything goes well...until Dean's world comes crashing in on Allison's safe, sane existence.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Cameron, House, or Dean Winchester. Damn it all to Hell.  
Author Notes: Spoilery for S3 of House. Not really spoilery for Supernatural. **

**Also, this is a WIP. You were warned!**

Allison sat at the bar, nursing a glass of red wine and letting her mind wander.

House had been gone from the Diagnostics department for a month. Some days, she actually _missed _the snark and the deep, penetrating stares that seemed to be designed for no other purpose than to make her squirm uncomfortably in her seat. Looking at the bloodstains on the carpet next to the whiteboard stand was almost a comfort on those days. A reminder that House actually existed, that he'd be coming back after his rehab was done.

Other days, she was glad he wasn't there. He wasn't there to take potshots at her, or to mock the fact that she still harboured some caring feelings towards him. The Diagnostic department was managing to limp along (no pun intended) fine without him – they'd only had a few cases, and between her, Foreman, Chase, and Cuddy, they hadn't managed to lose anyone yet. Allison was pretty sure that was partially due to Wilson acting as liaison behind the scenes between House and Cuddy on the more challenging cases, but she didn't ask. Their approach seemed to be working for the moment.

She sighed and took a sip of wine. She probably should've asked Chase and Foreman to join her tonight, just so she wouldn't be alone with these circling – useless – thoughts. She could always phone them, Allison supposed. But ever since the time she'd slept with Chase, and the time Foreman had stolen her article, she'd felt that confiding in them wasn't exactly a good idea.

On the subject of Chase, her thoughts now turned to that night when she'd taken the meth and called him. In a way, part of her _didn't_ regret it. Who said one-night stands were for men only? This was the new millennium. And as an added bonus, at least no one could accuse her of having slept with Chase in a bid to 'get to the top'. If she'd called House that night and jumped him, on the other hand…

Still, the aftermath hadn't been pretty. The gossip mills at PPTH hadn't exactly been kind to her. Clearly, getting involved in any way other than professionally with her work colleagues might be more trouble than it was worth. And chasing after House had been so much trouble already.

Not for the first time, she wished there was someone else. Someone unconnected to PPTH, that she could take the edge off her hunger with. That she could have fun with, and not have regrets in the morning. But between her job and her jogging, there wasn't much time or energy for other socializing or dating. Even this night at the bar was a rare thing for her, alone or otherwise.

She didn't know how Chase and Foreman managed it, but she just didn't feel like going to the effort of finding new social circles, of making new friends. Which sucked, since the people she knew at PPTH weren't exactly cutting it, lately.

Maybe that even was partially why she had been so enamoured of House – not just his brilliance, his wit, his uniqueness – but because she hadn't taken the time to smell the roses. She didn't associate with anyone outside of work, so when she felt the need to touch someone, to _be_ touched, the only people available were her work colleagues.

She had just started to raise her wineglass to her lips again, when the person next to her jostled her arm, causing red liquid to slosh over the rim and onto her hand and the bar's surface.

"Damn!" said a male voice. "Excuse me, ma'am. Guess I need to watch where I'm putting my elbow."

She glanced over at him. Good-looking guy, around her age. Short spiky hair, light dusting of stubble across his cheeks. It was too dark in there to tell his eye-colour, but her guess was green or blue. A leather jacket and beat-up jeans with lots of holes in them completed her first impression.

He was _very_ good-looking, actually. Allison's thoughts of finding herself someone to just have 'fun' with came back to her full-force, but she shoved them away. "No problem," she replied with a polite smile and a little chuckle. "Occupational hazard of the bar-stools being packed so close together."

The stranger favoured her with a dazzling yet somehow self-conscious smile, and passed her a napkin. "Yeah, it's a bit of a _feng shui_ nightmare in here. Great for meeting new people, though, I guess." He held out a hand to her. "I'm Dean. Can I buy you a replacement? We don't want the counter to get _all _the fun."

She didn't miss the way his eyes travelled from her face, down over the rest of her body and back, but it didn't annoy her as much as it usually did. Maybe having House look at her like that – and then do absolutely _nothing _about it – was making her appreciate other men's 'appreciation' more than before. "Allison," she said, taking Dean's warm hand and shaking it. "And there's no need, really. I've plenty of wine left."

"It's no trouble. You might think I get to buy drinks for pretty ladies every day, but no." He gave her a sly wink that she found quite endearing, for a guy she barely knew. "C'mon, say yes. Then I can go meet up with my brother later and tell him I was being a gentleman. And I'd be telling the truth for once."

She found herself smiling back at him. "All right."

While another round was being brought for each of them, Allison took the opportunity to study her drinking companion again from the corner of her eye. Yes, she decided, _very_ cute. A bit of a 'bad boy', too. He looked incredibly young compared to House, but…she realized what she was doing and stopped that train of thought.

"So, Allison, what do you do? When you're not in bars getting accidentally soaked in wine by clumsy neighbours, that is?" Dean asked, obviously amused at his own clumsiness.

"I'm a doctor. Immunologist."

He nodded. "I don't admit to knowing much about medicine, but sounds like important stuff. That's got to be a tough job."

It was, but not for the reason he was probably thinking. Working with someone as difficult as House was easily the toughest part of her job. "It can be. But very rewarding. When you figure out what the patient has and you can cure them, that makes it all worth it."

He nodded and took a deep draught of his beer.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Me? Oh, I'm a cop. Off-duty, of course," he said, after a pause.

She wondered if he had handcuffs on him at the mom- Stop, she told herself. She didn't actually have the balls – so to speak – to ask this stranger to take her home and have sex with her.

Or did she?

Dean was smirking, and she suddenly wondered if he was _lying_. "You're kidding," she said. Maybe House and his never-ending suspicions of other people and their motives were really starting to have an effect on her. A negative one.

"Nope," Dean answered. He dug in a back pocket and produced his wallet, flipping it open and showing her the badge. Dean Steele, Dallas Police Department.

"So you're not from around here, then," Allison said, feeling both relieved and disappointed, and not really sure why she was feeling either emotion. Was she really thinking about picking this guy up? If that was the case, wouldn't it work out even better if it didn't become a regular thing? No strings attached, just a night of fun and that was it? If he left town the next day, the chances of anyone at PPTH finding out and the tongues starting to wag at full-steam ahead would be _much_ lessened.

"Passing through, yeah. I may hang around for a little while – my brother's here in town and he has some…_things_ to take care of – but yeah, I'm not local. You?"

"Yes, I work at an area hospital."

He nodded, and Allison took another sip of wine, feeling her heart start to pound just a bit faster. She began to wonder if she really dared to take the next step. Really, this was crazy. She _should_ finish her drink, thank him for the company, and then call a cab and go home.

But, if she really examined her feelings closely, she was tired of things being the way they were. Of having to be the 'good girl'. The one who needed to remove her inhibitions with meth, before sleeping with a co-worker. The one who crushed on her boss and hero-worshipped him. The woman who went home to an empty, cold bed night after night after _night_.

For once, she wanted to choose to have fun – while in her own right mind – and live a little. And have no one at PPTH know about it, unless she told them.

The question was, did she dare? Even if she did, Dean might just turn her down. She made an effort to calm herself, taking a deep brea th and trying almost by sheer force of will to slow her racing pulse. So that she'd feel less of a let-down if Officer Dean ran screaming in the other direction.

She decided it would be prudent to test the waters a bit first. Returning to her earlier thought, she asked him in as casual a voice as she could manage, "So, I guess if you're off-duty, you don't have your handcuffs on you, or anything like that?"

He'd been looking down into his beer, but now Dean glanced sharply over at her. A slow grin spread across his face, and he raised an eyebrow at her. "They're nearby if I need 'em." He sat back on the bar-stool and gave her a lazy once-over again.

Her cheeks were burning now, but with embarrassment or arousal – or both – she couldn't tell.

But she also felt more _alive_ than she had in a very long time.

"Always good to be prepared?" she asked lightly.

"Hell, yes," he drawled.

"But then again," she continued, pretending to be disappointed, "you _did_ want to tell that brother of yours that you'd been a gentleman tonight."

He gave her a speculative look, and she felt a warm feeling stir in her stomach. "There's many ways to define 'gentleman', Allison. I think if I gave a lady what she wanted, that'd make me a gentleman, too, wouldn't it?"

"I think I like that definition," she said, making up her mind and deliberately draining the last of her wine. She took another deep breath, steadying herself. "And I think I'd like to try out those handcuffs of yours."

His car was a surprise. It was old (a '67 Impala, he told her, pride evident in his voice) and black and seeing it made Allison wonder what the heck she was doing. She barely _knew_ this guy, and she was getting into his car? What if he had an axe in the trunk, or something? She had mace in her purse, but she wasn't sure it'd be much of a defense.

Dean seemed to pick up on her sudden unease. "You know, if you're having second thoughts, it's OK. You don't really know me, and I don't know you. You want to stop this right here, s'okay. But if that's the case, I hope you'll still give me your number." He was standing at the driver's-side door, looking earnestly at her across the top of the car. "We could try meeting up again later, sometime. Another public place. Have a coffee, a chat. Maybe give me a chance to prove I'm a nice guy. Or as nice as you _want_ me to be, anyways." He was smirking at her again as he finished the sentence, but she knew he was serious about this.

Just having him recognize the potential pitfalls of their current situation made her feel better. He was capable of empathy, not like Hous- again, she stopped that train of thought.

Besides, he didn't strike her as dangerous, somehow. He was a cop, for God's sake. He _arrested_ people who took advantage of people like her. And her gut told her that she could trust him.

It seemed like mere moments later, they were walking into her apartment. He was tall, she realized, as she grabbed his jacket in both hands and pulled him against her, stretching up to kiss him. Not quite as tall as House, but- Again, she realized what she was doing and put a stop to it. House didn't belong here. Not in this moment.

Instead, she focused on what was happening. Like the fact that Dean was a good kisser. Leather-clad arms slid around her shoulders while his hot tongue probed her mouth. She breathed in - cologne, beer, leather, and a bit of smokiness from the bar. How long had it been since she'd kissed anyone (and the barely-remembered tumble with Chase didn't count)?

The hot ache between her thighs soon drove her to drag Dean – not unwillingly – towards the couch. She didn't even think about trying to make it to the bedroom in this state. But he didn't seem to care, as he was too busy losing the jacket, a shirt, and a khaki-coloured tee-shirt along the way. Soon they were both lying on the cushions, Allison running her hands over the incredibly smooth skin of his chest and arms, and toying with the odd charm around his neck.

He tangled his fingers in her hair and kissed her so many times, she couldn't keep track of it. She didn't care to keep track, either. The heat in her belly and between her thighs threatened to overwhelm her, and again she recognized that she felt more alive, more _awake_, than she had in a very long time. Why the Hell hadn't she done something like this long before?

She helped Dean unbutton her blouse, guided his eager fingers to the front clasp of her bra. She didn't feel like wasting time. She'd waited long enough for someone to please her like this.

His teeth were on her nipple and she gasped, grinding herself against the hot bulge in his jeans. His tongue left wet tracks on her skin, slowly working down towards the waistband of her pants.

"Wait," he said, pausing, his voice rough. "Did you still want to play with these?" He held up a pair of handcuffs, a mischievious twinkle in his eyes – green, she finally confirmed – as he spun them around on his ind ex finger.

She could feel the heat, the _want_, spiking in her belly, spiralling deep inside her. It was tempting to say yes, to just give in, but that didn't mean she shouldn't be careful. "If you have the key."

"Never leave home without it," Dean grinned and produced a key from another jeans pocket, locking and unlocking the cuffs just to show her. "Here, you can even hold onto the key the whole time, if you want. Whatever you're comfortable with."

Again, she was struck by how…empathic he was. So different from her team-mates at PPTH. So different from _House_. Just as before, it encouraged her. Made her willing to take the chance. "Sounds like a plan," she said, taking the key from his outstretched palm.

He locked the cuffs securely around her wrists and then placed her hands carefully down on the cushions above her head. "Where was I?" he mused out loud, smirking at her once more. "Oh yeah, I was about to continue my 'strip-search'."

"Please, Officer," Allison said, feeling an urge to be playful. "Can't you just let me off with a warning?"

"I'd rather _get_ you off," he leered, undoing her pants and pulling them down and away. Her panties went next, and she had to close her eyes against the intense look on his face as he spread her wide and looked at her.

"Looks like I'll have to charge you with possession. 'Possession of hot female body parts'," Dean commented archly, and Allison laughed. She was enjoying this, oh God yes.

"Does this mean you're going to send me to jail, Officer Steele?" she teased, opening her eyes and looking up at him.

"No. 'Round these parts, we like to give first-time offenders an opportunity for 'treatment'. Would you like a demonstration?" He licked those full lips, his expression pure sin.

"Do your worst, _copper_," she jeered. Her laugh turning sharply into a moan as Dean's mouth made contact.

He was good at this. _Very_ good at this. The only thing better than that dexterous tongue walking its way up and down between her folds, was that tongue settling on her clit for an extended visit. Plus his fingers easing inside her, seeking out the most sensitive places to touch and tease.

Allison had the first non-self-induced orgasm she'd had in months – that she could remember, anyways (again, the sex with Chase didn't count).

When Dean sat back, his lips wet, and looking very pleased with himself, she figured it was time to return the favour. She fumbled to unlock the cuffs, and then tossed them onto the coffee table with a clunk, before practically pouncing on him.

"A standing ovation, Doctor? I love getting those," he commented appreciatively. He lifted his hips, helping her to slide off his jeans and boxers. A very nice erection, lean and long, was waiting for her.

"You're the one _standing_," she pointed out, before taking him into her mouth.

"Not- for long," he gasped, his hands caressing her shoulders as she moved slowly back and forth along his length. For several moments, she felt clumsy and out-of-practice at this, but Dean was making a lot of low noises deep in his chest and watching her every move as intently as if it was the hottest porn action he'd ever seen, so she stopped worrying about it.

Allison sped up a fraction, caressing his balls at the same time, and then paused to look him wickedly in the eyes as she gave the pulsing crown a good tongue-bathing. She wasn't too surprised when he sat up straighter and pushed her gently away. "I've got condoms in the bedroom," she said, by way of invitation.

"I've got condoms in my pants," Dean countered, reaching to snag them from the floor. At her amused look, he added, "Hey, I like to come prepared."

"They teach you that at the Police Academy ?" she asked, grinning.

"Nah. Boy Scouts."

She helped Dean put the rubber on, then let him pull her into his lap. It was a new position for her – though she saw no need to mention that to Dean – face-to-face and seated, but they found their ideal rhythm within a few experimental thrusts.

Thoughts of House tried to intrude one last time – speculation as to whether House would've been able to perform this position with her, with his bad thigh and all, not to mention the bullet wounds – but she shoved them away, concentrating on kissing Dean. Concentrating on the way her nipples were sliding against his nicely-muscled chest, his arms strong around her, his heat thrusting forcefully inside her…

When they were lying together afterwards, entwined in her bed, she reflected that she _wasn't_ going to regret this in the morning.

Dean called her four days later. "Hey, Allison."

She smiled to herself, pleased. They'd exchanged numbers the morning after their first encounter, but even after he'd left her apartment that day, she'd still been OK with what they'd done, even knowing that she'd probably never see Dean again. For one night, she'd been able to let loose and have fun, and no one had gotten hurt for once. And no one was gossiping about it.

"Hi Dean. How are things going?"

"Not bad. Listen, I'm going to be here awhile longer than I'd thought. And I had a lot of fun with you last time, so I was wondering….Um, would you like to get together again? It's OK if you don't, I just thought I'd take the chanc-"

"I'd love to," she said, without hesitation.

"I'll bring the handcuffs, then. Just in case," he said with a leer in his voice, and she could very clearly picture the smirk on his face.

When House walked into the Diagnostic conference area without even a trace of a limp, Allison was surprised, to say the least. But she was also happy to see him.

"Welcome back!" she said. "You look…"

"Healthy," Foreman finished for her.

Predictably, House brushed off their attempts to be welcoming. "Quad with no broken neck, strikes me as odd."

She tried to get him to slow down. Just because she was seeing Dean now, didn't mean she had to stop caring about House. "Uhh... you _could_ take a whole two minutes to ease into being back."

He didn't listen to her. No surprise there. Even her attempt to ask about the shooter was brushed off.

Still, she made one last effort to connect with him. "The leg looks fine. You totally pain free?"

All she got was the familiar snark in return. "When did this turn into 'what did you do over your summer vacation?'" House might have full use of his leg, but otherwise, the status quo was in full force. She should have known.

Still, she found herself rising to the bait a few seconds later, when House did ask, "What did _you_ do over the summer?"

But when she tried to answer, he cut her off and told her to redo the tests for their latest case.

Screw it, she decided with an inner sigh. Besides, what was she going to tell him? "Well, House, I went to this bar and picked up a guy – and no, I wasn't drunk or stoned out of my mind, I'm sure that surprises you – and we had a great time having wild sex on my couch. Oh, and now we're dating. So I really _am_ over you, you see." Oh yeah, that'd go over real well.

What was she thinking? Was she feeling _guilty_ because she'd finally moved on and left House and his problems behind?

That was just silly. She'd finally found someone nice. Someone who was good to her – and not just in bed – and who was witty (without being cutting like House) and who she had fun with. And no, Dean wasn't damaged, unlike House may have predicted.

No, it was none of House's business. Nor anyone else's. If things with Dean developed further, yeah, then maybe she'd tell someone. In the meantime, she was going to do her job, work hard for House and her team just as she always had, and enjoy her time off with the new man in her life. She was going to enjoy this new side of herself.

And if House didn't like it? Well, he had only himself to blame.

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	2. Chapter 2: Examinations

**A Welcome Distraction, Chapter 2: Examinations **

**Author: starhawk2005**

**Summary: Dean visits Allison at PPTH. House finds out about Dean and Allison. And handles it with his usual tact. *snerk***

**Disclaimer: Don't own Cameron, House, or Dean Winchester. Because slavery is bad.  
Author Notes: Yes, I know, I'm stretching and twisting the canon timeline of both shows to suit my nefarious purposes. In case you're wondering, in the Supernatural timeline, I'd say it's set somewhere between 'Provenance' and 'Dead Man's Blood'.**

**Still a WIP, OK?**

It was an unusual situation for Dean Winchester. He was the type of guy who usually went for one-night stands (much to Sammy's amusement). That was just how it was. When you're hunting evil, you can't settle down and have a family. You can't stake a zombie on Monday, exorcise possessed humans Tuesday and Wednesday, behead vampires on Thursday, and then drive home on Friday and screw your wife, mow the lawn, and play baseball with the kids on the weekends.

Dad had _tried_ to be a weekend father while Dean and Sam had been growing up, after Mom had died. Yeah, it hadn't been pure Hell, but all things considered, Dean had decided a long time ago that he didn't want to start a family of his own under those circumstances. So, having 'temporary' relationships with girls had always seemed the best option.

Not to mention what had happened with Cassie. Dean had loved her, but he hadn't known how to tell her what he did for a living. When he'd finally gotten his courage up enough to do so, that had been the end of their relationship. And it had _hurt_, dammit.

Stupid romantic notion, but he'd always privately wondered if Cassie would be to him what Mom had been to Dad – a bond so strong that not even death could break it. But it _had_ broken, because of the hunt. That was another reason that Dean would have 'fun' with girls, but never anything lasting or serious.

Until now.

He wasn't sure why Allison Cameron had proved the exception to the rule. Maybe he'd been wrong about how long he could settle for just a little 'action' on the side, with no emotional involvement. Or maybe it'd been the way she'd responded to him. Most girls he tried to pick up either refused him outright, or were just interested in near-anonymous sex. They didn't want to know his name, or what he did for a living. They just wanted to get his pants down around his ankles and his body on top of - inside of - theirs. And most of the time he hadn't minded, because that was what he'd wanted, too.

But Allison had been different. Usually, _he_ was the seducer. When she'd initiated everything, by starting in with the whole handcuffs thing, he'd been surprised. Intrigued. Her sense of humour and willingness to 'play' had sucked him (literally, haha) in. The fact the resulting sex had been mind-blowing hadn't hurt, either.

So, instead of just regretfully crumpling her number up and tossing it into the Impala's glove compartment like he'd done so many times before, he'd called her. He'd also managed to squeeze in another visit or two, in between hunts with Sammy – a zombie on one, and one of your 'garden-variety' ghosts on another – and it seemed that he and Allison now had a 'thing'. He wouldn't call it a relationship, exactly. But it was _something_. Certainly the first 'something' he'd ever risked since Cassie.

Which was why he was now taking a little road trip. Sam had gotten antsy, wanting to see Sarah, so he and Dean had agreed to take a break and split up. Sam'd taken the bus - there was no way Dean was parting with his four-wheeled baby – and they'd take three or four days off, hang out with their respective lady-friends, and meet up later.

Evil could wait a little while. As Dean had once told Sammy, this job had its perks…but you still had to make some time to enjoy them.

It was an unusual situation for Allison Cameron. She'd spent all that time trying to get House to notice her, trying to figure him out, trying (and failing) to let him go. Now, she didn't have to. She had Dean.

In a way, being involved with someone else had an unexpected benefit. Now that she was no longer trying to please House (an impossible task in itself), she was free to fight back. She stood up to him, she snarked, she challenged. When House reacted with surprise and fascination, part of her mourned the fact that if he'd only acted like this towards her before, maybe something could have come of it.

But that was only a _small_ part of her. The larger part was happy with Dean, and wasn't willing to give that up, even if the new and improved, not-crippled House got down on one knee (now that he could) and asked her out. Dean Steele had many of the same characteristics that had first attracted her to House – a tall, good-looking guy, with a wicked sense of humour. But he was also so many things that House _wasn't_. Kind, caring, empathetic, and capable of gentleness. Both inside and outside the bedroom.

Sure, there were drawbacks. Being a cop based in Dallas meant that he didn't live here. It had been two weeks already since he'd left to go back to work, and Allison missed him. Missed feeling his skin against hers. At least she got to hear his voice, when he called her. Which he did every few days. But that small part of her – the part that House still seemed to own – lamented that fact. Told her it wasn't enough. She'd just gotten around to rediscovering how good it felt to have a warm body wrapped around her in bed, and now she was basically back to square one, that part of her thought.

Dean wasn't here. House _was_. Hadn't she told herself that she wanted something new? Yes, she had Dean, but if he wasn't going to be around, how was that an improvement?

But that was still only the smaller part of her psyche. So when House ambushed her one day, totally out of the blue, it was that larger part of her that responded.

She'd been in the midst of making gentle fun of him – one of her new past-times, since she'd started dating Dean – when he'd tried to broadside her.

"What a touching moment. That's why we become doctors. For those rare moments when our hearts are warm-"

House had cut her off. "Would you like to get a drink?"

It gave her pause, before she reminded herself that he was just trying to get under her skin. This was the same man, after all, who'd asked her to the monster truck rally with about as much enthusiasm as a man requesting a prostate exam. Not to mention she'd had to blackmail him into that 'date' at Café Spoletto.

"Are you serious, or are you just trying to change the subject?" She figured she knew the answer, but it was still an ingrained reflex to ask him.

"No, I'm serious. I drink, you drink. We could do it at the same time, same table. Do you eat? We could do that, too. I mean, if the answer's no that's cool, but..." He stopped and turned to face her, obviously waiting to see what she'd do.

_Now_ she was frozen, wondering what to say. Yes, dammit, that small part of her wanted to say yes, to accept, to see what happened. The part of her that was convinced that Dean had been fun and all, but it was House she really wanted.

But she also knew it would be a bad idea to accept. House was either trying to throw her off or to test her, and even if House _was_ being serious, even if she and Dean hadn't exactly promised to be 'exclusive' to each other, she didn't want to go that route. Really.

But she didn't feel comfortable telling House about Dean, either. She remembered his reaction to her innocently holding hands with Sebastian Charles, for one thing. Or, he'd make fun of her relationship with Dean, tell her that she was just passing the time until House himself asked her out. Or that she'd found herself yet another charity case to fix.

Quickly, Allison decided that the best thing to do was to just turn House down, but without making any reference to Dean. It was none of his damned business, anyways. "No, I... it's just... you're just coming off the surgery and you're not yourself yet, and I work for you and even though last year's..."

Predictably, House was smiling. As if she'd given him just the reaction he'd predicted. Bastard. _See?_ she said to herself. _This is why Dean is the better choice._ She sighed in frustration, but it was at herself. For, even for a moment, actually thinking that this could work.

"You're smiling! I'm saying no, and you're smiling!"

"Oh," House said dismissively, "don't take it personally. It's just 'cause you're full of crap. You have no interest in going out with me. Maybe you did, when I couldn't walk and I was a sick puppy that you could nurture back to health. Now that I'm healthy, there's nothing in it for you."

Even now, that still struck a chord, although not the one he was probably aiming for. No, it made her remember their one disastrous 'date', the things he'd said…._Fuck you, House._ He thought he could boil her down to a simple diagnosis, did he? Well, two could play at that game.

"You are _not _healthy." Even as she said it, she knew it was true. Even if Dean hadn't been in the picture, dating House at this point would be a very _very_ bad idea. The fact House was still standing there and smiling smugly at her just confirmed it.

She turned and walked away, heading towards the Diagnostic offices. There was no point to any further conversation with House, not while he was on one of his 'Let's-Diagnose-Your-Neurosis' kicks.

Dean pulled the Impala into a space at the Princeton-Plainsboro hospital parking lot, grumbling a little at the cost. He'd have to hustle some pool at a local bar soon. He killed the engine, cutting Metallica's 'Unforgiven' off in mid-verse.

He usually didn't allow himself to feel smug, but for once, he had one over on Sam. _Sammy might be dating the well-educated daughter of an auction house owner, but _I'm_ doing a doctor_, he thought. _Burn, Sammy_.

Allison didn't know he was coming – didn't even know he was in town, as a matter of fact - but he'd decided to surprise her at work and take her out to lunch somewhere nearby. Something, he supposed, that boyfriends did. Something he remembered doing for Cassie, eons ago. He checked his watch. Yeah, it was 11:45am, hopefully he'd be able to spirit (no pun intended) her away for a little bit.

He wandered the place until he found her. Dean'd never seen a hospital with so much glass in it, but it made locating Allison that much easier. It didn't take long to find the Diagnostic Medicine department, and he knew he was in the right spot when he spotted her through the window, sitting around a table with two dudes, her back to him. Those must be her two colleagues. 'Foreman' and 'Chase', if he remembered correctly.

He pushed open the door and sauntered in. "Working through lunch?" he asked casually. He got puzzled looks from the two dudes, but Allison started, turned, and then gave him a big, surprised grin. Getting up from her chair, she came over and hugged him. _Nice._ He was enjoying this already.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, looking very happy to see him. Oh yes, he was _very_ glad he'd done this.

"What, I can't come and surprise my girl? There some city ordinance against that? I can claim ignorance, being a Dallas native. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it." He smirked at her.

"Your….girl?" the black dude asked, apparently stunned.

Dean figured some introductions were in order, and went over to shake the guy's hand. "Dean Steele," he said, flashing his A-1 grin. "Dallas' Finest. Or so we like to tell ourselves. You must be either Dr. Foreman or Dr. Chase."

"Eric Foreman," the dude said, raising an eyebrow and shooting a puzzled glance at Allison. Maybe she hadn't told her work colleagues about him. Not that it mattered. Dean shrugged inwardly and introduced himself to the other doctor, who did indeed turn out to be Robert Chase.

"You boys mind if I steal Allison for an hour or so? It being lunch-time and all? Or have you got a patient at the moment?"

"Well, we'd have to ask Hou-" Allison started to say.

The door opened again, and this time a tall, scruffy-looking dude with a mild limp shuffled in. He glared at all of them, before his disapproving gaze settled on Dean. "Hello, who are you? Waiting room's down the hall."

"You're Dr. House," Dean said, taking an educated guess.

"Wow, a psychic! How amusing. Except I'm already _bored_. So unless you're sick or dying, you don't belong here. Unless I ordered a pizza and have since forgotten?" He scrunched his brow theatrically.

Dean could already tell this guy was a bitch to work for. Even Dad had more tact than this. On his _worst _days. "I just came to visit-" Dean tried.

"Don't care. You're wasting my team's time. I don't know which of them you're sleeping with, and 'frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn', but it's time to leave."

Whoa, this dude was _nuts_. "OK, awkward," Dean said, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

"Look, House," Allison said, obviously trying to ease the tension, "He's with me, OK? He just came by to take me to lunch."

"What, while our patient is busy dying? Shame on you, Cameron. Where's that pathetic empathy and sense of compassion that we so know and love?"

Wow, this guy really _was_ an asshole. Allison hadn't been exaggerating. "Dude," Dean remarked calmly, "just a friendly suggestion, but you might want to get that stick in your ass surgically removed." Dean didn't miss the quick grin on Foreman's face, which the latter swiftly covered up with a hand.

"I've a newflash for you, Apprentice Proctologist. Diseases don't take lunch-breaks. So '_Allie-cakes'_ is busy, and is going to stay busy until our patient is cured. Until then, you can take _your_ attractive but highly gratuitous ass out of my conference room. Or do I have to call security?"

Allison now looked angry and frustrated as Hell, and Dean felt bad. He'd brought this on her. _Crap._ "Fine," he snapped at House. "I'm going." He made it to the door, before he couldn't resist shooting back over his shoulder: "Just try to control that obvious jealousy of yours, Dr. House. Allison, I'll see you later." He got the heck out of there. He didn't know if it was true, if House _was_ in fact jealous, but he figured it was a good guess. He knew the guy had a reputation as an asshole, but there was being an asshole, and there was being an _asshole._ Something had to be fueling it. After all, House'd only gotten really cutting once Allison had owned up to dating Dean.

Dean glanced back after a few paces down the hallway, to see Allison standing in front of House, hands on hips and obviously fuming. _Damn,_ he berated himself. He waited for the elevator, restlessly toying with the shades in his pocket. This _sucked_.

There had to be some way to see her. To apologize.

House's words came back to him. "Waiting room's down the hall." _Wait a minute_….

Allison's stomach growled. Perfectly in tune with her mood. She was practically growling at the patients herself.

_Typical House._ He'd all but chased Dean away with his cane (if he'd still been using one, that is). He'd then forced her to run ultimately useless tests all through lunch, and now she was stuck with her usual two hours of Clinic duty. Nice.

She remembered Dean's parting shot at House. That he was jealous. She didn't know if he was right; House didn't need much of an excuse to be an asshole. He probably would've been equally cutting if Dean _had_ been the pizza boy.

She sighed inwardly as she finished with her current patient – a mother and her 6-year-old, the latter having a bad cold – and ushered them out of the room. House had totally ruined Dean's surprise visit. Even worse, Allison had tried a few times since to raise Dean on her cell, but with no luck. What if he'd just been passing through, and now she'd missed her chance to see him? And all because House didn't want her with anyone else. Even if he didn't want her for himself.

She closed the exam room door and sighed again, out loud _and _loudly this time. She reached for the next file in the stack on the exam room counter, flipping it open. The name on the file gave her pause for a second. 'Dean Winchester'. She couldn't help smiling a little, despite the events of the morning, at how quickly just seeing the name 'Dean' made her mind automatically jump to thoughts of _her_ Dean.

In a slightly better mood, Allison went out to the waiting room. "Dean Winchester?"

A familiar voice came from one of the waiting areas off to her left. "That's me, Doctor."

Surprised for the second time that day, she turned and came face-to-face with Dean. Her Dean.

He smirked at her, pleased with himself. _I really should've done this from the get-go,_ he thought. No House to interfere. "Yeah, you see, I've got this _swelling_ in my pants. It's really bothering me."

Allison stifled a combination of groan and giggle. She had to get him into the exam room before anybody noticed them. All she'd need was for House to come strolling by and rip into them both again. One snark-filled dressing-down per day was already enough.

Dean closed the exam room door behind them, still smirking. Her stomach chose that moment to growl and rumble loudly again, and he grinned at the embarrassed expression on her face, even _more_ pleased with himself. The bastard had made her work right through lunch, just as Dean had figured House would. "Brought you a sandwich from the cafeteria," Dean said, holding up the paper bag in his right hand.

This_ is why Dean's a better bet than House_, Allison thought, coming over to hug him. _He actually has some degree of feeling for other people. He's_ _thoughtful. _

Dean put his arms around Allison, but didn't let go. "I also came to apologize," he said seriously, quietly. "I didn't think at all about how my visit might get you into hot water with your boss."

Allison tightened her arms around him, shaking her head. "It's not your fault. You were trying to surprise me, trying to do something _nice_. And he had to ruin it. It's nothing. If he hadn't attacked me for that, it would've been about something else. It's how he amuses himself."

Dean nodded, freeing up a hand so he could touch her face. "But that's not the only reason I came. I didn't get my kiss, earlier!" he added, miming a mortally-wounded expression.

She laughed and kissed him, deeply. Until her stomach protested again, and they both chuckled. "Excuse me while I feed the beast," she said, taking the paper bag and digging into it.

Dean didn't mind waiting. It gave him time to give the room a once-over, to hatch some plans. She'd already locked the door behind them. There was padding on the examination table. The blinds were closed. Guaranteed privacy, a flat surface…he wondered if he could make something of this situation. This _was_ the girl who'd picked him up in a bar and allowed him to handcuff her. On the first date.

Allison finished her sandwich and tossed the empty bag in the trash, then turned back to find Dean looking at her speculatively. "What's up?" she asked.

"How long do you typically spend in here with your patients. On average?"

"I don't know, maybe fifteen minutes? Half an hour? It varies by case. Why do you ask?"

"Good," he said cryptically, "That should give us enough time." He strode over, putting his arms around her again, and raised an eyebrow at her, his expression now rather lecherous.

"Oh, I get it. That _swelling_ problem you mentioned. In your pants. You want me to check it out." She grinned and wrapped her hands around his neck. If he was thinking about doing what she _thought_ he was thinking about doing, it was an intriguing notion. But at work? With people outside in the waiting room? With House or Cuddy liable to come pounding on the door at any time? She didn't think so. He might be off-duty, but she wasn't.

_Well, she has the right idea,_ Dean thought, but her hands were nowhere near his pants. "You might want to check a bit lower, Doc."

She snorted and backed away from him. "I don't think so, Dean."

He looked wounded again. "Why not? The door's locked, we've got this nice comfortable table over here, we've got a good-" he checked his watch- "twenty-five or so minutes before anyone starts to get suspicious." He paused and smirked at her. "You can't tell me you've never fantasized about having sex in a place like this."

That was true. She _had _fantasized about it. Except it had usually been fantasies about her and _House_.

Maybe actually acting out the fantasy with Dean would be just the thing to help quiet that last small part of her that House still owned. And Dean was right, they were locked in here, and no one seemed the wiser.

Still, she felt a bit reluctant. The mental image of House picking the lock and catching them in flagrante delicto was not an appealing one.

Allison looked uncertain. Well, Dean didn't mind _convincing_ her. He had a lot of practice at seduction, after all. He went up to her, threading his fingers through her hair, and kissed her. Probing inside her mouth with a soft tongue, once she'd relaxed against him.

He broke the kiss and started to unbutton her lab coat, watching her face carefully. The moment she seemed _too_ uncomfortable, he was going to stop this.

"Dean," she said, eyes wide. But it wasn't a 'no', and her hands weren't coming up to impede him. He pulled the lab coat off her, throwing it across the room and onto the counter. Then he shifted closer to her once more, kissing her again. He took one of her hands, leading it to the bulge in his jeans. "I want you," he breathed. "But if you want to stop, you'd better tell me no, right _now_."

She didn't want him to stop. _God, no._ She didn't answer, but she did press herself harder against him and curl her fingers around his length, pulsing and rigid against her palm through the layer of soft, worn jeans.

He gasped, dropping his mouth to her neck, tongue tracking wetly over her skin. He was trying to buy a little time, time to decide how he wanted to do this. Viewing and then discarding various scenarios in his mind. As one of her hands started to undo his zipper, her other hand running down his back, sliding down his jacket and then over his jeans. Rubbing over the shape of the handcuffs he'd stuffed in his back-pocket earlier. For context, of course. He _was _supposed to be a cop. Hell, he even had a piece, if not for the expected reason. Old habits died hard.

"I see you brought the cuffs," she teased, remembering their first time together.

He removed his mouth from her neck and stood back up, looking down at her. "I'm nothing if not consistent," he remarked. "Is this your way of asking for a repeat performance?"

The thought alone made her breath catch in her throat. Yes, she'd be lying to herself if she claimed that being helpless – just a little helpless – wasn't a turn-on. But _here_? "Don't you think what we're doing is risky enough already?"

"Hey, if anyone bursts in and finds us, you can always blame me. I was the bad guy who 'forced' you." He gave a low, evil laugh. Sammy would probably have recognized it. Dean laughed a lot like that when they were pranking each other.

The more Dean thought about using the cuffs, between additional deep hot kisses, the more he liked the idea. A way of making up for wrecking Allison's morning. He'd do all the work, and she'd just have to relax and enjoy it.

Mind made up, he reached into his back pocket for them. "C'mon, Al. We've only got, like, twenty minutes left." He dangled the cuffs between them. "I want to be in charge, and I want to make you feel good. Can't argue with that, can you?"

She couldn't, and she no longer wanted to. She just wanted to find out what he'd do to her. "No."

Dean was smirking triumphantly, but it was nothing like the triumphant smile House had given her the other day, when he'd asked her out. Thank God. "Glad to hear it. Now lose the shirt."

She pulled it over her head, then, anticipating, reached to undo the front clasp of her bra. "No," he said, stopping her. "I'll do that. Turn around." There was a new note in his voice. One of _command_. He'd never spoken that way to her before, but it made her quiver nevertheless.

She did exactly as he said, and warm fingers wrapped around her wrists, guiding her arms behind her back. Then it was cold metal, sliding around each of her wrists, two loud clicks sounding as Dean locked the cuffs. He hadn't given her the key, not this time. But it didn't matter. She trusted him.

Dean made her face him again so he could get her pants off. A few quick movements, and they were off. He backed up to admire her. "I'm sure guys've told you before how beautiful you are, Al," he said to her. "But it's true." Her cheeks were flushed, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. And the mismatched underwear was awfully cute. Seeing it made him feel like this moment was even more special. More than just hot illicit sex at work. It was _intimate_; they were showing sides to each other that they didn't normally show other people.

Which might be something most everyone did in their lives without a moment's thought, but the Winchesters? This was something Dean hadn't done in a long time. Exposing himself like this. Exposing himself to another person, and to potential hurt.

He shoved both that distracting idea and some of his own clothes away. They probably had less than fifteen minutes left before someone at the nurses' station got suspicious. His jacket, his gun-holster, and his black tee-shirt wound up in a pile on the floor, and he thought quickly about how he was going to do this.

Allison watched Dean strip himself to the waist. He thought _she_ was beautiful? She could very easily say the same of him. Smooth skin, well-defined shoulders and arms and chest. Those green eyes, those lips. Tall and strong and well-made, that was Dean.

He walked over to stand next to the exam table. "This new paper?" he asked her, fingering the edge of the sheet.

"Yes. I change it after every patient. Hospital rules." she told him.

"Good." The next thing Allison knew, Dean had wrapped his arms around her hips and was lifting her onto the examination table, the paper crinkling quietly underneath her. "Lie down on your stomach," he said quietly in her ear, warm breath shivering along her nerves.

With his help, she rolled over carefully. When she was settled on her belly he moved away. She couldn't see where he was or what he was doing, so she got a mild shock of surprise when fingers caught at the hem of her panties, pulling them off. Then those strong fingers took hold of her hips, tugging her back towards him, towards the edge of the table, her thighs spread wide and supported by the crooks of his elbows as he leaned in. God, she was so wet already.

Dean kissed the soft, velvety curve of her ass, before craning his head down further to go after his real target: the delicate, already-damp folds between her legs. A few quick darts of his tongue, and she was already squirming. He moved his hands off her hips, repositioning so he could use his thumbs to hold her open, expose every sensitive surface. He eased the tip of his tongue into her, savouring her essence, before moving his mouth lower, caressing her clit with slow, even strokes.

Allison tried her best to muffle her noises. It was a new challenge for her, trying to keep quiet while someone was setting every nerve ending afire with pleasure. She pushed her face against the surface of the table, certain that everyone in the waiting room was hearing every snap and rustle of the paper as loud as gunshots.

But it felt too good to stop. She didn't want it to stop. In fact, she almost hoped House would somehow hear and walk in and catch them. Let him see how a _real_ man treated women. That was her last coherent thought.

It was hard to keep his tongue on her clit, she was writhing and twisting so much, but Dean managed it somehow. "Mmmm," he said. _So delicious._ He slipped two fingers inside her, scissoring them. Continuing to tease, making lots of sloppy sucking noises.

Too far to turn back now. Allison had to bite her lip and press her face _hard_ into the paper, every thought shredded away by sensation. She slumped, shuddering, whispering Dean's name, aftershocks still zinging through her.

Dean stood up again, taking his fingers out of her and unzipping himself. Surveying the situation again, plotting. Just like a hunt, but with a far more pleasurable conclusion.

He didn't bother to remove the jeans or his briefs, just walked around until he was standing in front of her. Pulled himself out, hard and erect. Then he waited, to see what she'd do. If she didn't want to return the favour, it was no big deal, she could make it up to him late-

It wasn't the easiest thing to do, to slide forward on the paper when her skin was sticky with sweat, but Allison managed it. Managed to get close enough to stretch up and swipe at the underside of his shaft with her tongue. "Yes, baby," he encouraged her, sliding his arms under her and helping to hold her up, supporting her neck.

Salt and musk and veins pulsing under her lips. She wasn't well-positioned to take him into her mouth, so she made good use of her tongue instead, licking him with the flat of it, tickling sensitive skin with the tip, nibbling gently on the corona with cautious teeth. She could feel his eyes on her the whole time, watching everything, and she looked up to meet his gaze.

He cursed quietly a few moments later, pulling away and lowering her back to the table. "You keep condoms in here somewhere? I think I forgot mine back in the Impala."

"Top drawer on the far left," Allison told him, licking her lips and very grateful, suddenly, for all the safe-sex discussions she'd had in here with patients.

Dean found what he was looking for and moved back behind her, this time guiding her to slide even farther forward on the exam table. He made her get up on her knees, her face and shoulders still resting on the crinkly paper, then climbed up behind her, also on his knees. He tore open the condom packet and got himself ready, before slowly, gradually, pushing himself inside her. Christ, felt so _good_.

He wrapped one hand around her cuffed wrists, steadying her, then moved his other hand to her bra, opening it and finally baring her nipples to his touch. He stroked one gently, and her muscles fluttered around him in response, urging him to move faster. He didn't mind. They were kind of still on the clock, here. Besides, he could go for a much slower pace later on. Assuming this wasn't going to be their only encounter of the visit, which he was sure was a safe bet.

Dean moved fast and thrust hard, but Allison didn't mind. That familiar sensation was starting again, the precursor to climax, fueled by his rough motions and the feel of his hand teasing her neglected nipples. When his hand abandoned her nipples and began to rub back and forth across her clit, she knew she wasn't far from surrendering again.

It was too much for Dean. Tight walls squeezing around him, slickness under his fingertips, the thrill of doing this in a semi-public locale, the view – her back, pale and filmed with a new sheen of sweat, her fists clenched and those handcuffs gleaming dangerously, the sight of his own gleaming shaft sliding quickly in and out of her – it drove him, pushed him, until he shoved into her one last time and he had to draw in a low gasping breath, spending himself.

She hadn't come yet, however, so he pulled out quickly, then put both hands back to work on her. One busied itself with her nipples, tugging on each one in turn, and he continued to rub hard at her clit, until she gave in again, slumping underneath him. Completely out of it.

Allison dimly felt Dean unlocking the cuffs, and then he was pulling her around and into his arms. She wrapped languorous arms around his shoulders and kissed him, hard and repeatedly_. If he's swaggering when we walk out of this room,_ she thought, _he's certainly earned it._

"I hate to 'wham, bam, thank-you, ma'am', but I'd better get the heck out of here before anyone gets suspicious," Dean said.

She nodded, getting reluctantly off of the table. Now that common sense was starting to reassert itself, she realized that no, she _didn't_ actually want House to come in and catch them. "OK." There was a small stack of towels on one of the counters, and she tossed him one, before using another to dry herself off.

A few minutes later, both of them were dressed. Her makeup had gotten a little smeared, but with the help of some paper toweling and the sink, she hoped that even the normally perceptive House wouldn't notice. Or maybe she could lie and tell him she'd been crying over a patient, and then had to fix her mascara.

It was much easier, when she no longer really cared what he thought of her.

Allison started for the exam room door. "Whoops! Wait a second. We forgot something." She turned to see Dean pointing to the crumpled – and ripped in one spot – paper on the examination table.

She felt a quick blush heat her cheeks – would she be able to do the rest of her shift in this exam room without getting distracting flashbacks to what they'd just done? – as she changed the paper and tossed it in the trash. A quick scan of the room revealed nothing else that would give away what they'd done in here.

Dean was waiting by the door, hand on the knob. He leaned down, pressing another kiss to her lips, a relatively chaste one this time. "Pick you up after work?" he asked. He didn't know when he'd be back this way again, so he may as well make a day – and evening – of it. Maybe they could go out somewhere, too, so it wouldn't be just a booty call. He'd have to think on it.

"Sure," Allison said, smiling. She schooled her expression down to something more neutral as he opened the door. "Go see the pharmacist to fill your prescription, Mr. Ste- Winchester," she said, trying not to smirk, in case someone was watching.

"Will do, ma'am," Dean said, tipping her an imaginary hat. A few long strides, and he was gone.

Allison hoped no one noticed the glow in her cheeks.

House let them leave at a relatively early 6:30 pm. Or let her and Eric leave, anyways – Chase had drawn the short straw to keep tabs on their patient. Allison tried to pack her things as quickly as possible (without seeming to) and get the heck out of there before House had a chance to make a cutting remark.

She made it to the parking lot without incident, breathing a sigh of relief to see Dean already waiting there, leaning against the Impala. Well, it was really more like _lounging_ against it, but again, he'd earned it.

He gave her one of those slow smirks and ambled around to the passenger side. "Milady's chariot awaits," he said, bowing with a flourish as he opened the door for her.

She got in, grinning. As Dean walked back around the car and slid in behind the wheel, something occurred to her. "Where'd you come up with that last name you used to fool me in the Clinic? 'Winchester'?"

He paused, looking caught off-guard by the question.

Dean hadn't expected that. This was the problem with dating someone smart – you had to keep track of your cover story. And your lies. He scrabbled mentally to come up with something, until a lightbulb finally went off. "I thought at first of using 'Dean Remington' – y'know, Remington Steele? And from there I went to 'Winchester'. My Dad had one when I was growing up." He shrugged, as if it was nothing of much interest. She didn't need to know what else was in the arsenal Dad had back in the day. And now, too, come to think of it.

Dean seemed a little _off_, but she supposed he was just tired. Poor guy had put in quite the passionate performance earlier. She leaned to kiss him again.

"So," he said a moment later, "You wanna have some fun? Maybe grab a bite somewhere, see a movie?" _Have some more sex?_ he added silently.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a movie. "I like that idea. What kind of movies do you like?"

He held up a hand. "No chick-flicks."

She rolled her eyes, but she wasn't really surprised. "I figured. Horror film?"

Dean made a face before he could stop himself. Yeah, other dudes might enjoy having a terrified female cowering in their laps, but that happened to him on a daily basis. Not to mention vampires, werewolves, and zombies kind of lost their on-screen zing when you'd spent the better part of your life hunting them down and killing them. "I don't know. I kind of need to be in the mood for that sort of thing," he temporized. Maybe he should've gone for 'chick-flick' after all.

"OK, how about an 'action' flick, then?" Allison decided that if he didn't like _that_, maybe she'd just suggest dinner. And then a romp in the bedroom.

_That,_ he could do. "Deal," he said, grinning and offering her his hand so they could shake on it. He started the Impala's engine with a roar, rolling down the window before pulling out of the parking spot. "Just point me to the nearest moderately-priced dining establishment." He wished he could take her somewhere fancy, but his fraudulent credit cards were already too close to the limit.

They'd barely gotten rolling, however, when Allison spotted House in the midst of climbing onto his motorcycle. He saw them, glared, and then waved them down.

_Oh crap_, Allison thought, almost telling Dean to just gun the engine and drive on past. House hadn't earned any politeness with his vitriol this morning.

House waited until the Impala was stopped in front of him. "Our patient is dying, and you're going on a date." It was a statement, not a question. Allison felt her ire rising. _Damn him._

Dean shook his head slightly. This dude needed to get laid. Fast. Just not by _his _girl. "_You're_ going home," Dean pointed out.

House looked suddenly tired. "Yeah," he said, fidgeting.

For a moment, Allison wondered if he'd actually apologize. But House only looked the Impala up and down, finally grudgingly saying: "Nice car. For a pizza boy."

Dean was losing patience, fast. He'd had enough of this guy ruining his time with Allison. "Yeah? Well _fuck_ you, too."

House didn't answer, just smirked as if he'd scored points in some invisible game, and then started the engine, peeling quickly out of the parking spot, and away.

Allison just shook her head, totally irritated at her boss.

Dean caught the expression on her face. Thinking it was aimed at him for allowing House to push his buttons, he said, "Sorry. 'Hasta la vista, baby' was already taken. And copyrighted."

She laughed, putting her hand on his arm. "Don't worry. _He_'s the asshole, not you. And you got him to leave, which is more than I can usually manage. Maybe I should try swearing at him more often, myself." She leaned over to give him another kiss. "Let's get the heck out of here."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am," he saluted her. The Impala growled, and off they went.


	3. Chapter 3: Secrets Unearthed

**A Welcome Distraction: Secrets Unearthed**

**Author: starhawk2005 **

**Summary: Dean and Allison have a little 'playtime' before Dean has to get back on the job again. And then everything goes to Hell in a handbasket.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Cameron, House, or any of the Winchesters. Woe is me!  
Author Notes: AU, for gosh sakes.  
Still a WIP, yes!**

Allison could barely move at all. Tied to a chair and completely helpless. Completely at the mercy of her captor. She twisted a little, trying to struggle, but the bonds held firm. There was no escape.

He stood silently behind her, hidden in shadows. "Please," she begged him, her mouth dry.

A shifting sound behind her, and then fingers slid around her throat, a ring brushing coolly against her skin. The hand tightened, but not enough to cut off her air. Just enough to press a little harder, to give weight to the caresses. Another hand slipped down her cheek, taking hold of her chin and tilting her head back.

Dean's face came into view as he leaned over her, smirking evilly. "I could get used to this. Having you all to myself, totally at my mercy." He gave a low, nasty laugh, watching her shiver in response.

"Will you just shut up and kiss me, already," Allison rasped, impatient. "You're such a damn _tease_ sometimes, Steele."

"Yeah, but you love every minute, Al," he whispered back. He tightened his fingers fractionally around her throat, but it wasn't a threat. It was intimate, another tease. An _illusion_, because no way in Hell he was ever going to hurt her.

Allison made a frustrated noise and struggled again against her bonds. He'd used his handcuffs (as usual) to lock her wrists behind her and to the chair, looping the short chain between the slats.

When she'd specifically requested that he use the handcuffs, he'd winked at her and said, "You're a kinky girl, Allison Cameron." But he'd gotten serious quickly, when Allison had informed him that she hadn't wanted him to stop there.

She'd wanted to be totally helpless, to know what that felt like. She'd daydreamed of that so many times before (only with _House_), and now she'd wanted to feel the real thing, with Dean running the show. So she'd gotten him to pull some soft nylon rope out of her closet (yes, she'd been thinking about this for awhile), and then had him bind her shoulders to the chair. Also her ankles, after he'd taken some initiative and pulled her hips forward, probably in anticipation of what he was going to do to her in the very near future.

So now she was completely vulnerable, without any control over the situation. It frustrated her, but it also _excited_ her. She should've known Dean would try to draw this out as long as possible.

Still smirking down at Allison, Dean decided he'd tormented her enough. At least for the moment. He'd already stalked around her several times, slow and predatory, admiring the view. Planning silently how to get her clothing out of the way without having to untie her first. Also slowly stripping himself to the waist as he walked around her, putting on a little show for his 'captive audience' (heheh). And finally standing behind her, where she couldn't see him, making her wait, watching her _squirm_. He'd done this kind of thing before – occasionally, he'd run into a girl who wanted more than the usual 'vanilla' screwing – but this was different. This was someone he'd come to care about, someone he wanted to please. Someone he wanted to take care of.

When he finally leaned down and kissed her, she was so impatient by then that she practically forced her tongue into his mouth. Chuckling to himself, he let her. It was just about the only power Allison had right now. He suckled gently on her tongue, and slid both hands down over her bound shoulders, arrowing in on the buttons of her shirt.

Allison broke off the kiss with a gasp when Dean pushed warm fingers into her half-opened shirt, stroking the soft swell of the tops of her breasts. He didn't do anything else, though, didn't move his fingers any lower, even when she did her best to squirm and get his hands where she wanted them. "Dean!" she complained.

Christ, she was aching and _wet_ already, and he'd barely touched her so far. Yes, it was as exciting to be at someone's mercy as she'd always imagined. More, even. There was no point protesting, she realized that same moment. Dean was totally in control. If he wanted to tease her for hours, there was nothing she could do.

He was still looking down at her, smirking as if he was aware of every thought going through her head. Leaning to her ear, he purred, "Patience, Al. I'll have you coming all over this chair soon enough." _God_, Allison thought, shivery all over. Dean could be perfectly _evil _sometimes.

Dean continued to stroke her soft white skin, working lazy fingers gradually into the cups of her bra. But even then, he was careful to avoid her stiff nipples. He had every intention of making this last as long as possible. It wasn't often that he had the luxury of going _slow_ like this, and he was going to take full advantage of it. So when he finally decided to move things on, he just pulled his hands out and unbuttoned Allison's shirt the rest of the way, grinning at her strangled growl of protest.

He circled the chair until he was in front of her, and then snagged a pillow from her couch and got on his knees, using the pillow to cushion them from the floor. Thank God she was wearing a skirt, he thought, or he would've had to undo some of his earlier work with the ropes. Yet another reason to appreciate feminine attire.

Allison shut her eyes and tried to relax her straining muscles while Dean was positioning himself. No telling how long Dean was going to drag this out. A _long_ time, she decided a moment later, as Dean raised the hem of her skirt about half an inch up her left leg and graced the stocking-clad skin between rope and skirt-hem with a few very wet licks of his tongue.

It was an operation he repeated, over and over. He'd raise her skirt a fraction, wet her stockings with moist tongue and hot breath, then switch to the other leg and repeat the action. The few times she opened her eyes to watch the torturously delicious progress he was making, he'd leer up at her, like he knew exactly how badly she wanted to break free of the ropes, shove him down on the floor, and then pull his face right between her legs.

He shifted tactics when he got to her knees, however. Her skirt was shoved up around her waist instead, and then he was slowly drawing the stockings down, one at a time, until the fabric was crumpled just above her ankle-bonds. Now he had bare skin to tantalize, and he was apparently going to make the most of it.

Dean breathed deep, enjoying the familiar scent of her skin, her soap. He let his short stubble brush lightly against her inner thigh, and then softly mouthed every inch of skin, from her knee right to the edge of her panties. He noticed that the panties themselves were wet, fragrant with her arousal, and he had to put a hand to his erection, rubbing himself just enough to relieve some of the ache. Not yet. He wasn't done yet, not by a mile, and if Allison was in no position to rush him along, he sure wasn't going to let blue balls derail his evil plot.

He kissed her through the panties, now mouthing the damp fabric, looking up to watch as she gasped and let her head roll back on her neck. She shifted underneath him, rocking her hips against his mouth, nipples hard and clearly outlined through her bra.

Dean slipped a fingertip under one edge of the panties, stroking the skin, trying to decide his next step. The bra was a pain, but he could pull it aside or get his hand somehow around her back to undo the clasp, and just put up with the annoyance of it trapped across her belly. The panties were another matter, however. He supposed he could just shove the crotch aside and have at it, but he really wanted them _gone_, and he couldn't do that without untying her legs completely.

That was when he got a really kinky idea. Well, kinky to him. He didn't know if Allison would go for it. No harm in asking, he supposed. "Allison," he said, waiting until he had her full attention. "Are these expensive undies?" he asked, gesturing at bra and panties.

What was he up to? Allison wondered. "No, not really," she replied. She made a mental note to actually go and get some fancy lingerie to surprise him with the next time he was in town. She hadn't actually owned anything really lacy and pretty and _just_ for bedroom use, not since Thomas had passed away.

"Good," he said calmly.

And pulled a knife from his jeans.

She stiffened, and Dean kicked himself mentally. What had he been thinking? She was helpless, and her boyfriend had just produced a knife – one she probably had no idea he'd had the whole time – seemingly from the air. He made his expression, his voice as reassuring as possible. "Trust me, Al. I'm not going to hurt you." Trying to lighten the mood, he added, "Those undies, on the other hand? They're going _down_."

Allison did laugh, a little, but she was still nervous. "What does a cop need with a knife?" she asked.

Dean glanced at it, the blade flashing clean and sharp even in the dim lighting. "My Daddy gave it to me when I was small. He's always been big on 'backup plans'. Guns _do_ misfire on occasion," he explained. And, for once, everything he was saying was absolutely truthful.

Allison took a slow breath, reminding herself that this was Dean, that she trusted him.

"OK, baby?" he asked, leaning in and kissing her softly just above her knee. "If it's not, that's totally OK. I'll put this away and we can forget-"

He was being empathetic and considerate again, just like their first night together. It convinced her to let him do whatever he'd originally planned. "No, Dean, it's OK."

Dean breathed an inner sigh of relief and smirked up at her again. Kneeling up, he pulled the middle of the bra a little way out from her skin, and slid the blade in. One almost-gentle tug, and it was cut through. He sharpened this knife _very_ frequently.

The shoulder straps of her bra were given the same treatment, and then he was pulling the scraps of cloth free and flinging them away. He put the knife carefully on the floor, and then took one erect nipple hungrily into his mouth, tasting and teasing.

Allison sucked in a sharp breath. Her skin had never felt more sensitive, more _alive_ to everywhere Dean was touching her. Maybe it was the temporary scare the knife had given her. Maybe it was the helplessness. Maybe it was the merciless teasing Dean was subjecting her to. She didn't know, but she almost felt like she could come right then and there, just from the warmth and wetness of his mouth on her breast.

Dean curled his hand around Allison's other breast, fondling the firm tip, enjoying every twitch and moan and shiver he got in response. Yes, he could definitely get used to this, he decided.

Soon, it was time to get those panties out of his way. He sat back on his heels and picked the knife up from the floor again, carefully slicing through the elastic waistband just above one of her hips. Another slow cut on the opposite side, and he tugged the material free, smirking in approval at the view. All that tender skin, waiting and hungry for his touch. He put the knife away, then got right down to business.

"Oh God, _Dean_," Allison gasped. His tongue was touching her so lightly, brushing against her clit and over her folds with such soft strokes that she could barely feel him, and yet it was still almost too much, somewhere between pleasure and pain, her heightened awareness of all sensation turning this into one of the most intense sexual experiences she'd ever had.

She was so wet she was practically dripping, and Dean allowed himself to feel smug. Anyone who claimed that long-term relationships killed sexual desire just wasn't _trying_ hard enough, he mused. He tongued her clit, still using the same soft strokes, running light fingertips up and down the sweat-damp expanse of her inner thighs, feeling her tremble and wriggle against the bindings. She was so _close_, it was tempting to hold her there, right on the edge, for as long as she could take it. Or stop and frustrate her, only to build it up again.

But the increasing throbbing inside his jeans gave him other ideas. So as her sounds and movements became more frantic, Dean relented. He switched strategy, sucking harder on the centre of her pleasure, sliding three fingers easily into her slickness.

He'd judged it almost exactly. It only took a few gentle thrusts into her, and she was climaxing, her muscles grasping tightly at his fingers, her body convulsing against the bonds.

Allison let her head fall forward, panting. "Oh God, Dean." It seemed to be the only thing she was capable of saying.

"I'm here," he said, low and reassuring, as he pulled his knife out again. But then he was slicing the ankle bonds quickly and efficiently off her – there wasn't even time to wonder at how practiced he seemed at this sort of thing – and then he got up and walked around behind her, first cutting the ropes off her shoulders, and then there was the familiar sound and feel of him unlocking the cuffs.

But it was only for a moment, because once he'd freed the chain from around the slats of the chair, he was cuffing her wrists again, before lifting her limp, sweaty body in his arms and carrying her into the bedroom. "C'mon, Al. I'm not done with you, yet," it was a low growl, a threat and a promise, and Allison laughed.

"I can take whatever you've got," she said lazily, brushing kisses against his chest, his nipple.

"That's good, because I've got a _lot_, if I do say so myself," he returned with a superior grin.

When they got to the bed, however, all banter ended. She was on her knees and he was unclothed, and then sheathed in latex and balls-deep inside her almost before either of them knew what had happened. One of his hands wrapped around her cuffed wrists, the other tangled in her gorgeous hair, using it like a pair of reins to hold her still, controlling her. Making her his. But still _careful_. Because that was the kind of man Dean was.

They groaned in concert, grinding themselves together, until first one and then the other reached the point of no return. They lay together for a long time afterwards, breathing quietly, sweat slowly evaporating off hot skin, their limbs twined together.

Both of them silently marveling at how perfect it was, and hoping it would stay that way.

It didn't.

Everything was fine at first. Dean left to go home to Dallas, and Allison rode cloud nine. She was beginning to see the advantage of long-distance relationships. Yes, it sucked when Dean wasn't here, but when he was, it was _intense_. The sex, the connection, the excitement.

She didn't know if or when she wanted to take things to the next level. She didn't want to move to Dallas, and she didn't know if Dean wanted to move here. But that was OK, she was enjoying this for now.

Plus, her remaining romantic notions about a certain ornery, crippled doctor that she worked for? Those notions were coming much fewer and farther between, and she was happy about that, too. House didn't want her, had spent two years ignoring her, and she'd waited long enough for him. Dean was the right man for her.

Or so she thought.

A week after Dean left, the police showed up at her front door.

"Are you Dr. Allison Cameron?" One of them asked, a tall blond man with a mustache who identified himself as Detective Franks. His partner was a woman, a petite brunette with grim eyes who introduced herself as Spencer.

Allison was confused at first. Then, her stomach clenched at a sudden thought - was Dean _hurt_, and they had come to inform her?

She let them in, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Starting to feel _afraid_.

"Doctor, do you know this man?" Spencer asked, passing Allison a photocopy of what had originally been a pencil sketch.

It wasn't an exact likeness, but she could tell it was Dean. "Yes, that's Dean Steele. We're seeing each other," Allison said, beginning to feel _very_ afraid. "Please tell me what's going on."

"I know this might be hard for you to hear, Doctor, but…" Franks paused, a sympathetic look in his eyes, and Allison suddenly wanted to scream. "His real name is Dean Winchester, and we suspect he's a serial killer."

Knees suddenly weak, Allison sank down on the couch, still clutching the sketch of Dean. Dean Winchester. He'd called himself _Winchester_ at the clinic. Surely that wasn't a coincidence?

Franks wasn't finished. "We got an anonymous phone call, telling us that he was here in town. That he'd been spotted at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, in the Clinic. We went in and asked around, and the nurse at Reception said you treated him?"

"No, I didn't really 'treat' him, he just came to visit me," Allison replied in a daze, still trying to process what Franks had said. A serial killer? She couldn't believe that. Her world had just gone totally sideways.

"What is he accused of doing, exactly?" she asked. Her voice was shaking, but she didn't care about that. She just had to _know_.

"He – allegedly - liked to tie women to chairs and then beat them to death," Spencer said. "He'd cut them, too."

Allison felt like she was going to faint. The handcuffs, letting him tie her to the chair, the _knife_…

But then the obvious thought arose. She was _alive_. He'd had her totally helpless, totally at his mercy. Heck, he'd been standing over her with a knife barely a week ago. If he'd wanted to hurt her, to kill her, he'd had multiple opportunities to do so. He could even have murdered her that first night, their first 'date', if he'd wanted to.

Spencer wasn't finished. "But one of the problems is, supposedly he died in St. Louis. After the most recent murder. So everyone involved figured the case was closed….until this anonymous tip. Something isn't adding up. At minimum, we'd like to question him. For all we know, it's just a case of mistaken identity."

Yes, that had to be it. Someone had screwed up. Or maybe was messing with Dean for some reason. That was easier to believe, than to believe her Dean was a killer. "Yes, I'm sure there's some mistake," she insisted.

"Why so sure, Doctor?" Franks asked.

"Because…because," Allison fumbled her words, not wanting to tell them, not wanting to share that private thing, but she needed to help them see this was all wrong. It wasn't _her_ Dean. "He had me…_helpless_…several times, and he didn't hurt me. Not at all." She could feel her cheeks turning red, and the two cops now looked uncomfortable themselves.

The more she thought of it, the more certain she was. _She_ was the one, after all, who had insisted he tie her up. Yes, the knife had been his idea, but would a serial killer have offered to put it away if it scared her? Would he have given her an orgasm, cut her free, and then had sex with her? Then kissed her tenderly goodbye the next day and promised to come visit her again as soon as he could? Hell, no. She'd be dead now.

She was no expert on serial killers and their ways, but the little she knew about them didn't fit what she knew of Dean. What she _felt _about him.

And yet, she remembered the ease with which he'd handled the knife. No hesitation, as if he'd used it _often_…

Trying to make sense of the turmoil in her mind, she went on: "He's a cop, too. In Dallas, Texas. I saw his badge…" Slowly her words trailed off, however, as she realized how little she _did_ know about him. That he was a cop, that he had a younger brother named Sam who was a private eye. A few things about his Dad, and his childhood. But other than that, not much. She knew more about what kind of movies Dean liked, what foods he liked, what sexual positions and kinks he favoured. But did she really know all that much about _him_?

Still, even with the sudden uncertainty, Dean as a killer felt all wrong. Her gut told her it was _wrong_. But even if her scientific mind discounted what her gut was telling her – something she was sure House would be proud of - the cold hard facts agreed, this time, with her intuition: the fact _was_, he'd had plenty of opportunities to hurt her, if that's what Dean had wanted to do. Yet he hadn't.

It just wasn't possible. It _wasn't_.

"Where is Dean now?" Franks asked, breaking into her scattered thoughts.

"He…he went back to Dallas. To work. I told you, he's a cop…"

"We can check into that easily enough," Spencer said, nodding. "Do you know where he lives? Did he give you an address where you can contact him?"

"Um, no, just a phone number," Allison said weakly, the doubts taking firmer hold again. "We haven't been seeing each other that long," she added defensively, after giving them the number. Yes, she didn't know all that much about him. But then again, how often did they _see_ each other? How often did they get a chance to have a long, in-depth phone conversation?

She hadn't realized until now how many gaps there were in Dean's history. She'd just assumed that was how long-distance relationships went.

"When will he be visiting again?" Franks pressed.

That was when something cold settled into the pit of her belly. When Dean showed up next, they'd be waiting to question him. Maybe even to arrest him.

No, not before she learned the truth. She wanted to hear his side, give him a chance to explain the coincidences. Give _herself_ a chance to see if her instincts, her gut, were totally shot. And yet- You were so desperate for a relationship, so desperate to get away from House, look at what it got you into, that traitorous part of her whispered.

No, she told herself again. This was all wrong. It _had_ to be. She'd find a safe way to talk to Dean, and then – only then – if she didn't like the explanation, she'd do everything in her power to have the cops on his tail first thing.

"I don't know when he's coming next. Sometimes he calls first and arranges visits, sometimes he just shows up randomly," she said, her voice now cold. Resolute.

Almost without knowing what she was doing, she was on her feet and herding them back towards her door. "And that's all I'm prepared to say right now."

"Please, Doctor, you could be in danger-" Franks tried.

"No, I'm almost sure you have the wrong man," she insisted, opening the door for them and waiting. "Even you said it, the man you suspect of committing these crimes is probably dead. Until you know otherwise, for certain, please leave. _Now_."

Catching her partner's arm, Spencer nodded at him. "We'll go, Dr. Cameron. But please, if you hear from him, or if you think of anything in the meantime that you think would be pertinent to this investigation, call us at this number." Pulling a card from her jacket pocket, Spencer handed it to her. "Thank you for your time."

Allison closed and bolted the door after them, then wandered over to the couch, sitting stiffly back down again. Barely noticing as the sun went down outside and the room slowly darkened. Barely noticing the hot tears that trickled slowly down her cheeks.

Sam, what have I told you a hundred times? Driver picks the music-"

"Shotgun shuts his cake-hole, I _know_," Sam groused. "Can we listen to something other than Motorhead for a change, Dean?"

"No," Dean growled back, and just turned the music up louder.

Life was good. They'd found Dad (or rather, he'd found them), and found a weapon that could kill the Demon. A gun made by Samuel Colt, a gun that could kill anything. Finally, they had an edge.

Plus, they were together, they were going to fight this thing as a _family_. Dean had no doubt they'd succeed, either. They were stronger as a unit.

They'd split up for the time being, though. Dad was checking out some leads two towns over, while he and Sammy were checking out some strange occurrences in this area. According to what Dad had worked out, the Demon was due to make an appearance soon. It was just a question of figuring out which town, and which family with a six-month-old baby, and then lying in wait. And then shooting the fucking thing full of more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese.

Maybe this would all end soon. Maybe Dean could think about settling down, starting his own family, even. Now that he had someone like Allison in his life.

Dean's phone rang, and he turned the music down. Maybe Dad had his answer already.

He lifted the phone to his ear, ignoring Sam's disapproving look. Sam hated it when Dean drove and talked on the phone at the same time. "Hello?"

"Dean?" It wasn't Dad, it was a woman. _His_ woman.

"Well hey there, Al. How're things?"

"Not good, Dean. Look, I need to talk to you. It's…an emergency." Her voice sounded odd to him, cold and emotionless, and almost immediately his hunter's instincts were on edge.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He pulled sharply off the road, ignoring Sam's worried look.

"Some cops were here," she said in that new flat voice. "They showed me a sketch of you. Said your real name was 'Dean Winchester'. And-" She paused, and Dean's heart began to pound faster, "That you liked to kill women in your spare time."

It felt like something had him by the throat. Except this wasn't something he could tear off himself and then shoot dead. "Allison-" he started. But then his words just dried up. Because what could he tell her? Not the _truth_.

"I didn't believe them," she went on in that strange voice. "I still don't. You _had_ me, you had me at your mercy, you even said so yourself. But you didn't hurt me."

"You're right, I wouldn't," Dean said roughly. "I'd _never_ do that, Allison, you have to believe-"

"But I did some checking," she continued, cutting him off. "There's no Dean Steele at the Dallas PD. Never has been. So you lied to me about that. Makes me wonder what else you lied about. Who _are_ you?"

Dean looked at Sam, but there was no help there.

"My name _is_ Dean Winchester," he finally said. "And no, I'm not a cop. But I didn't kill those people, Allison. You have to believe me."

"Convince me, then," she said coldly. "We'll start with why you lied about being a cop. And why you're carrying a gun and handcuffs, if you _aren't_ one."

Dean tried. He even opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come out: Because I kill ghosts. Because I battle evil with rock-salt and enchanted guns forged by Samuel Colt. Because a demon killed my mother and my father found out the truth, found out about the world hidden underneath what we call reality, and Dad made it his life's work – and mine – to get revenge on the things that live there.

He couldn't. He kept trying, but what kept stopping him was the memory of Cassie's face - incredulous, disgusted, afraid – when he'd tried to explain the same things to her. "That's the craziest _shit_ I've ever heard, Dean," she'd yelled at him. Before walking out the door and out of his life.

"I can't," Dean finally said, defeated. "I can't explain it to you." He couldn't lie to her again, he just couldn't. Besides, she'd probably do some digging and find out the truth all over again. It would just be delaying the inevitable.

"Why?"

"Because you'd never believe me," Dean answered. He tried to stick to relatively safer topics. "But this you _have_ to believe – I didn't kill those people."

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. "I know you didn't. I'm certain of it. I'm not even sure how I know that, I just do. But I don't understand why you'd lie about being a cop."

She wasn't going to let it go. But Dean just couldn't tell her. He couldn't try to explain to her, to someone so logical and scientific, that the world wasn't what it appeared to be. "I can't tell you," he said again, closing his eyes.

There was a long pause, one that felt like it might have lasted for years, but when he said nothing else, there was only Allison's voice again, flat and empty. "Then I'm sorry, Dean or whatever your name is. But it's _over_."

The line went dead.

Dean just pulled the phone away and stared at it. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, he thought. But what else could he have done?

He knew what he _wanted _to do. To turn the Impala around, peeling rubber, and drive non-stop to Princeton. Go see Allison, try to convince her. Hell, maybe he'd even-

"Did she dump you?" Sam asked softly. When Dean nodded slowly, still staring at the phone, Sam said "I'm sorry, Dean," and laid a hand on Dean's arm. "Maybe you should try to call her back, tell her the truth-"

Dean shook off Sam's hand. "Right, Sammy. Because that worked so well with Cassie," he snarled.

Sam leaned back in his seat, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Maybe Allison is more open-minded than Cassie was. Sarah didn't freak out too badly when we first told her-"

"It was _easy_ for you and Sarah," Dean retorted. "She actually saw something supernatural. She couldn't call the men in white coats to take us away, without checking herself into the mental ward too. Allison's got no reason to believe me. She _will _think I've lost my mind."

Face twisted into a grimace, Dean put the Impala back into gear.

"What're you doing?" Sam asked, looking worried again.

"I'm carrying out Dad's orders," Dean said grimly. He had to put this behind him for now. Allison wasn't going anywhere. "We've got a job to do, and it's the most important job of our lives, Sammy." He turned to his little brother. "More important than _anything_. Even Allison."

Sam nodded in agreement, but he looked unhappy.

Dean turned his attention back to the road, hands white-knuckled around the wheel as he struggled to get his anger and pain under control. Allison wasn't going anywhere, he repeated to himself. Once this job was done, one way or the other, he'd go to Princeton and talk to her. Find some way to convince her. He had to.

But for now, the job had to come first.

Allison hung up the phone, scrubbing a cold hand over her face. She'd felt this way several times in her life. After Thomas had died, after every breakup before or since, even after realizing that House loved Stacy. It got worse every time. The same cold, empty feeling in her gut. The same despair, that things always came somehow to this. To being alone again.

At least she'd managed to get in touch with Dean. He'd told her once, early on in their – now defunct – relationship, that if she called him and he didn't answer for a few days, not to worry. That if he got really into a case, he could get pretty obsessive about it. And she'd thought of House and how focused _he'd_ get, and she'd figured it made sense.

So at least she hadn't been waiting on pins and needles for days, wondering if Dean was a killer. Wondering why he'd lied.

She was still sure he wasn't a killer. She would've preferred to see his face, to look in his eyes when she confronted him, but somehow, she still felt certain of it. No matter that he'd lied to her about a large chunk of everything else, she believed that he cared about her. She believed him when he said he'd never hurt her physically (apparently lying didn't count as _harm_). Allison remembered the softness in his eyes when he'd looked at her, how careful he'd been when he'd taken charge of her during their sex acts. No matter how many times she'd closed her eyes and replayed certain events in her mind – picking him up at the bar, getting into his car, letting him handcuff her, letting him handcuff her in the Clinic, letting him tie her to the chair, even the way he'd used the knife – no matter how often she went over it, she didn't see anything that spelled a threat to her.

But, on the other hand, lying about what he did for a living? What could be bad enough that he'd rather continue to hide it from her, even after he'd been found out? Maybe he wasn't a serial killer, but maybe he _was_ some kind of criminal.

Everybody lies, whispered House's voice in her head, and she put her face into her hands, fighting back the urge to cry. Hating the fact that her heart had gotten her into trouble once again. It had led her to marry a dying man, had made her chase a verbally-abusive, ornery cripple for more than two years, and now it had made her fall in love with a stranger she'd picked up in a bar. Who had turned out to be a liar and possibly dangerous.

Maybe House _had_ been the safer bet, after all. Maybe she should've continued to pursue him, and everything that had happened between herself and Dean should never have taken place.

That was when several sharp knocks sounded at the door, drawing her from her pain-induced stupour.

Apprehension stirred inside her. What if it was House? She didn't want to deal with him right now. Or worse, what if it was _Dean_?

She crept up to the door, looking cautiously out the peephole, but her visitor was a stranger, a woman Allison had never seen before. Feeling relieved, Allison called through the door: "Yes?"

"Hello, I live upstairs? We just moved in last week, and I was hoping to introduce myself."

Allison didn't feel up to this, but there was no reason to punish her neighbour for what Dean and his lies had done. Forcing a smile onto her face, Allison unlocked and opened the door.

House was _really_ annoyed. 11:04am on a Monday morning, and Her Ladyship Allison Cameron was nowhere to be found.

First, he'd come in and she hadn't been there, taming the beast of the coffee machine like she was supposed to. That was her job, damn it.

She hadn't called in sick, and neither Foreman nor Chase had heard from her, or so they said when they'd returned from checking on their latest patient. A teenage boy whom House hoped had some kind of exotic venereal disease and a sordid tale to tell. Those were always fun.

By 8:25am, House had been fuming. It was one thing not to come into work, but not even _calling_? That didn't fit Miss Goody-Two-Shoes at all.

She was probably off somewhere riding that annoying pizza boy like some kind of prize stallion, he thought darkly.

He briefly thought about going to Cuddy to complain. Getting Cameron in hot water with the Dean of Medicine might set the stage for some fun fireworks to watch later. Especially if House insinuated that Cameron and her pizza boy had been up to no good on hospital grounds. Not that House had any solid proof, but that glowing complexion she'd shown up with after Clinic duty, several hours after he threw her boyfriend out that first time, made him very suspicious.

Still, that wouldn't give him the satisfaction of reaming her out – so to speak – himself, so 11:04am was when House finally picked up the phone, determined to call her himself and let her know just what he thought of women doctors who allowed their boyfriends to distract them from their job.

He got a busy signal.

He tried ten minutes later, same result.

He tried _another _ten minutes later. Same result.

By now, House was ready to rip Cameron a new one. If he could get hold of her. Foreman and Chase were running through various tests, so things were progressing, but House still needed his immunologist. If only to let off the head of steam he'd built up. So finally he grabbed his helmet and limped out of the hospital.

Besides, he figured it gave him an excuse to skip Clinic duty. And if Cuddy complained, he could point her and her twins firmly in Cameron's direction.

He pulled the motorcycle up in front of Cameron's place, popping two Vicodin in mid-climb up the stairs, and preparing a litany of loud complaints as he went.

House was about three paces from her front door when his perceptive eyes picked up on something strange.

Her front door was open. Not by much, maybe an inch or two, but House's curiosity was piqued. Cameron was too cautious to just leave her door ajar like that.

Suddenly nervous, House limped forward, standing outside the door. "Cameron?" he called. There was no answer, and he shoved the door open and started to step in.

He stopped dead. Her place was _trashed_. Overturned furniture (even the treadmill), smashed knickknacks. The phone sprawled on the floor, off the hook; that explained the busy signal.

His dread mounting, House quickly searched every room, but there was no Cameron. No blood anywhere, either, but that was small comfort to him.

He limped in circles, not knowing what to do. Medical emergencies were one thing, but his immunologist vanishing, and her home wrecked like this? Who would've done something like this?

Resisting the urge to pop more Vicodin, House fumbled for his cell phone and called the first person he could think of who might know what to do – Lisa Cuddy.

Dean felt like crap. It was one thing to tell yourself you'd put your emotions aside, so you could do your job. It was quite another to accomplish that goal.

He felt sorry for Sam, who was doing most of the work. Questioning the locals, sneaking into fields to check for electromagnetic disturbances around dead cattle - Sam was doing it all, and Dean was just following mutely along, trying to get his feelings and thoughts under control.

He kept replaying his last conversation with Allison in his head. Kept seeing Cassie's face as she called him crazy and walked out.

Dean even found himself rehearsing what to say to Allison if he saw her again – assuming he _did _see her again; if the cops were after him, going back to visit could be a really bad idea – trying out and rejecting what felt like a thousand attempts.

Finally back in the Impala, Sam pulled out his phone and spoke to Dad, while Dean stared glumly out the window. Nothing had panned out where John was, so it looked like he and Sam (mostly Sam, rather) were on the right track here. In less than a week, it seemed, the Demon would show up somewhere here to flame-broil another nursery. The thought didn't excite Dean as much as it had several hours ago.

Sam said goodbye to Dad and closed the phone. "Dad thinks our next step ought to be-"

That was when Dean's phone rang. Maybe it was Allison? He dug it feverishly out of his jacket pocket, _hoping._

"Hello?" he said, trying not to sound too desperate.

"'Lovergirl' can't come to the phone right now," a familiar voice purred. Female, but _not_ Allison's.

Dean pulled the phone from his ear to check the display, but it was Allison's cell number. A sudden sinking feeling churned in the pit of his stomach. "What?"

"So," the voice continued, mockingly, "you'll have to make do with me. What are you wearing, baby?"

"Depends undergarments," Dean snapped angrily, feeling panicky and trying to hide it. This was all wrong. If only he could place the voice. "Who the Hell _is_ this?"

"I'm so hurt that you don't remember me, Dean," she said in a low, husky voice. "I remember you. You and your brother. And your father. You got away from my Daevas in Chicago. I'll try not to take that personally, though."

"Meg!" Dean gasped, finally putting two and two together. "Where's Allison?"

"Patience, baby," Meg said, amusement in her voice. "All good things come to those who wait. Are your Daddy and your little brother around?"

"_Fuck_ you. I want to speak to Allison," Dean gritted out.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Meg said. "Go round them up, Dean. But don't call me, I'll call you. You have thirty minutes."

And the line went dead.


	4. Chapter 4: All Hell Breaks Loose

**A Welcome Distraction: All Hell Breaks Loose**

**Author: starhawk2005 **

**Summary: Meg has Allison. Guess what she wants from the Winchesters, in exchange for Allison's life? I'll give you a hint. Four letters and it starts with 'C'.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Cameron, House, or any of the Winchesters. Life's SO unfair, dude.**

Allison could barely move at all. Tied to a chair and completely helpless. Completely at the mercy of her captors. She twisted, trying to struggle, but the bonds held firm. There was no escape.

This was about as far away from the last time she'd been tied up, as one could get.

_They_ were behind her, talking amongst themselves in low voices. Among them the blonde woman who had fooled her into opening her front door, and then backhanded her hard across the face. Allison dug her teeth into the gag, tensing as the horrific memories came back to her.

_Pain lanced through her cheek as she fell backwards, landing sprawled on the floor. The strange woman who had hit her strolled in, smiling in a way that shook Allison right to her core. Two men Allison had never seen before followed after the blonde, one of them smirking and shutting the door firmly behind him. _

_She was alone with these crazy people-_

_The blonde woman bent down. "Are you Dr. Allison Cameron?"_

"_Ye-yes," Allison said, her hand automatically going to her hurt cheek. She could taste blood in her mouth._

"_You know Dean Winchester, don't you? You've been sleeping with him for a couple months, right?"_

"_Yes," Allison whispered, forgetting in the shock of the moment that things were _over_ between her and Dean._

"_Very good," the woman purred. She stood up and turned to her companions. "Take her."_

_Allison tried to scream, but one of them gagged her before she could even take a breath. They tied her hands tightly behind her back and hauled her to her feet._

_The blonde woman walked up to Allison, reaching up to stroke across her rapidly bruising cheek. "I forgot to introduce myself, didn't I? My name is Meg. I'm an…acquaintance of your boyfriend Dean. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll come for you. In fact, I'm _counting_ on it. But we really ought to move the party somewhere more private, first…"_

_Before Allison's eyes, Meg's own eyes suddenly clouded over, turning completely black. No pupil, no iris, no sclera. Just _black_. Allison froze and stared, wondering if her mind was coming unhinged, trying to scream behind the gag._

There was a shifting sound behind Allison, and then strong fingers slid around her chin, a ring brushing coolly against her skin. The hand tightened, tilting her head back.

The blonde woman – _Meg _– was looking down at her, smirking evilly. "Sorry my friends had to trash your place, Allison. But we had to make sure that Dean realizes how _serious_ this is. If he comes looking for you and sees the mess we left, I'm sure he'll be that much more keen to hand over what we want. You understand, I'm sure."

Allison moaned behind the gag. She'd never been so afraid in her life. Not even her HIV scare came close to this.

She prayed to a God that she didn't even believe in, for someone, anyone, to rescue her. She couldn't even wonder if _this_ was the reason Dean had lied; she couldn't order any of her thoughts through the terror.

Meg let her go, then walked across the room – they seemed to be in an industrial park somewhere, in an abandoned warehouse – to a table cluttered with things Allison couldn't identify. Strange symbols, sharp knives, black candles that gave off a stomach-twisting scent. And a large goblet.

Meg stirred something inside the goblet, then picked it up, starting to talk at it as if she was having a phone conversation. "Yes, we have the means to bring them to us." A pause. "I called Dean a little while ago," she continued. "I told him I'd call him back. It'll give him some time to round up John-boy and Sammy. I'll probably try them in a few minutes." Another pause. "They'll come. They'll trade it. Dean's _in love_ with this one." Meg turned and faced Allison for a moment, her expression vulpine and cruel. "And John already feels guilty about Jessica, about Mary….I'm sure he won't take a chance with this one's life." An even longer pause. "Yes, sir….yes. I understand."

Meg put the cup down, then strolled over until she was standing right over Allison. "Now, you'll be a good girl, won't you, Dr. Cameron?" Meg asked, pulling a knife from her pocket. "I just need Dean to hear your voice. Behave yourself, do as I tell you, and you'll be fine." Meg leaned down, putting herself face-to-face with Allison. "Try to scream, or give me _any_ kind of trouble, and I'll pick a piece of you to cut off and send to him by way of FedEx. Understand?"

Shaking, Allison nodded. Anything, just to get this nightmare over with.

Dean paced the motel room, agitated. He'd nearly crashed the Impala getting back here to meet up with Dad. He'd explained the situation – "It's Meg. The girl who attacked us with those _Daevas_ in Chicago. She has my girlfriend." – and now they were sitting around.

Waiting.

"I just don't understand you, Dean," John said, sounding disappointed. "How could you put her at risk like this? It's one thing to take a little comfort on the side of the road here and there. But a _relationship_? This Demon'll stop at nothing to get to me, and that means if it can get to _you_, it will. How could you put this girl in danger, knowing what happened to Sam's fiancée? And your _mother_?" Dad's voice was rising, he was getting angry.

Dean spun on his heel, glaring at his father. "I didn't plan this," he ground out. "You think I forgot so easily what happened to Mom, and to Jess? You think I wanted these bastards to take Allison? I didn't plan for Allison and me to have this 'thing' happen. It just did. Maybe _you_ can go twenty-two years without anything in your life but hunting, Dad, but not all of us are wired like that." Dean paced to the window and swept the curtain aside, looking out, ignoring the salt line already laid over the sill.

"Besides," he added, although it was sure to start some fireworks, "I'm not the only one. Sammy has a new girl, too." He didn't need to turn, he could already imagine the betrayed look on Sam's face.

But he didn't care. When Meg called back – and she'd better call back, or he'd systematically hunt down and kill every last one of these evil sons of bitches – he'd find out what she wanted in exchange, and he'd give it to her. Allison wasn't going to suffer for the choices the Winchester family had made. Not if Dean Winchester had anything to say about it.

The fireworks he'd expected didn't happen, though. There was just a heavy sigh behind him, and his Dad said: "OK. Let's just see what they want. You said Meg would call back?"

"Yeah. Any second no-"

Dean's cell rang, and he snatched it up. "Meg?"

"Very good, Dean. I'd say you were psychic, but we both know that's more Sam's area. Is he there? And your Daddy?"

Dean looked over at his brother and his father. "Yes. But I still want to speak to Allison before we get down to business."

"When I'm ready to let you hear her, you will. For now, you're going to listen to me. We know you have the Colt, Dean."

"Yeah, what about the Colt?" Dean watched as his father mouthed 'no' at him, eyes wide in surprise. Didn't matter. They _knew_ already, and if Dean lied, Allison would pay the price. He wasn't going to risk that.

"You're going to bring it to us. A trade. Your very pretty girlfriend, in exchange for the Colt and any bullets it has left," she said silkily.

"Where?" Dean asked flatly, ignoring the fact that his Dad looked ready to have an aneurysm.

"I'm waiting in a warehouse in Lincoln. Corner of Wabash and Lake. You're gonna meet me here. With the Colt. At midnight tonight."

"It's a day's drive," Dean objected, "Give us more time."

"No," Meg said. "No negociations, Dean. If you're not here by then, I'll cut her throat."

Dean closed his eyes, hands curling into fists. "You let me talk to her right now. NOW! Or I'm not handing over anything."

He could hear the satisfied smirking in her voice. "Fine, Dean. I can be generous. When you _cooperate_." There was a pause, a rustle, and then Allison's tearful, scared voice. His heart lurched painfully in his chest. "D-Dean?"

"Yeah, baby, I'm here. Did that bitch hurt you?"

"I'm OK, Dean. Please-"

He cut her off. He didn't know how long Meg would let them talk, and he had a promise to make. "Don't be scared, Al. I'm coming to get you. That's a promise."

She started to answer, but there was more rustling on the line, and Meg's voice came back on. "There. We have a deal? Midnight tonight?"

"Yeah. And if you've hurt her-"

"Shut up, Dean. And put your Daddy on, I want to talk to him. Time for the grown-ups to discuss a few things."

Dean held the phone out to his Dad, not looking at him. Dean knew he had bargained away their one chance to kill the Demon, but what else could he have done?

"This is John," Dad said into the phone. He listened for awhile, but Dean wasn't paying any attention. He picked the Colt up from the bed, shooting Sam a threatening look when Sam tried to get him to leave it alone, and starting shoving it and their other weapons into a duffle bag.

When Dad hung up, he looked pale and upset. "What did Meg say, Dad?" Sam asked worriedly.

"More threats. That they'll hunt down and kill even more of our friends if I tried to talk Dean out of handing over the gun." He rubbed a hand over his stubble. "Dean, hold up. We need to figure out what to do."

"No time," Dean growled. "Be there by midnight , she said. That means we need to leave, _now_."

"_No_," John said, striding over and grabbing Dean by the lapels of his jacket. "Don't you get it? It's a _trap_. She said she wants all three of us there." John glanced over at Sam, then back at Dean. "The Demon doesn't just want the Colt out of the picture, it wants all three of us out of the picture. It's using your girlfriend to do that." He shook Dean, lightly. "I know how you feel, but we're _so _close. This is the most important hunt of our lives, Dean. The big one. In a week – less – that Demon is going to be here in Salvation, destroying some other family. We need the Colt. We can't give up our one shot to kill it."

Dean twisted himself out of his father's grasp. "I don't care. I'm not going to put Allison's life on the line," he spat. "I've followed your orders all my life. I think it's time I got a little leeway in return."

"Dean, please," John tried begging, "Can't you see how _stupid_ this is? We could finish this whole thing, right now! I just want this to be over, and I know you do too. We can't sacrifice our only chance-"

"Yes, we can!" Dean shouted. Sam came over, his face troubled, but Dean brushed him off.

"You managed to find the Demon this time, Dad. That means we can always find it again later. So let's go and kill these fuckers, and-"

John's expression hardened. "That's not the _point_, Dean. You're willing to put the life of your girlfriend above that of the next family the Demon's going to attack?"

"Maybe we don't have to," Sam offered quietly. "If we can get there by midnight and get Dean's girl away, that still leaves us lots of time to get back here. I mean, the Demon's supposed to show up around the end of this week, according to the signs, right? If we can rescue Allison and get back here within a day or two, we can still go after this thing. We can't just sit here and let Allison _die_, Dad. Not like Jess and Mom did." Sam turned beseeching eyes on their father, while Dean prayed silently that Dad would see reason.

John hesitated, and Dean saw his chance. "Sam's right, we can take them out and be back here in no time."

John sat heavily on one of the beds. "There has to be another way."

"Like what?" Sam was asking, but Dean just shook his head and continued to shovel gear and clothing into their bags.

"Maybe I can go alone. Bring them a fake gun, or something. No one's seen this thing except us and a few vampires, no one knows what it looks like-"

"Won't work," Dean reminded them. "Meg insisted all three of us show up. Besides, what if they figure out it's a fake? Allison's _dead_ if we do that. And probably so are we."

"Well, maybe I should call Meg back, try to make another deal," John suggested.

"What the _Hell_ are you talking about, Dad?" Dean retorted.

"Offer myself and the Colt. Just me, instead of all of us. At least you boys'll be safe."

Dean just stopped and glared at his father. "With all due respect, Dad, that's bullshit. We work better as a team. We don't know how many other _things_ besides Meg are going to be there, waiting for you. And if you can't free Allison, and get taken yourself, what then?" Dean shook his head and started opening and emptying more drawers. "Besides, I made her a promise. That I'd come for her. I'm not brea king that, I don't care what you say." He looked up and held his father's gaze. "You really telling me that if you'd had a chance to save Mom, you wouldn't have taken a risk like this? We're not making any damned deals, we're going to face this as a family, and save Allison. And then get back here and kill that fucking Demon, as a family. So we can stop living like this." He viciously shoved socks into his bag.

John came over and put a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean tried to ignore his father, but his packing efforts ground to a halt when he saw the tears in John's eyes. "I _know_, Dean. Don't you think I want that, too? I want Sammy to go back to Stanford. I want you to have a home and a family. I want to finish this, put this behind me….for Mary. And I don't want innocent people to be hurt."

"Then _help_ me," Dean implored, taking his father by the shoulders, and looking over to include Sam in his plea. "Help me go and save Allison, so we'll stop this from happening to another person we love. And then let's face the big badass together. Stop the Demon from taking any more lives, once and for all."

"OK," John said quietly, resigned. "OK, Dean." Kneeling down on the stained carpet, John started to pack away the rest of their ammo and gear. "Let's talk strategy, then," he said, clearing his throat and becoming all business.

Dean restrained a sigh of relief, but he exchanged a meaningful look with Sam. Maybe this would work out after all. Maybe they could turn this trap back on itself.

"Depends what Meg _is_," Sam pointed out, rolling their clothes into neat little bundles and packing them away. "Is she a demon herself?"

"Either that, or possessed," John said. "Doesn't matter in the end. We can use some of the same tricks. Salt lines will block them just as well, so maybe we can use that defensively. Holy water, although I'm not sure how we can use that as a weapon, either. Ampoules and bottles don't exactly have a long range. Exorcizing these people won't be an option, either, unless we can contain them somehow while we do it." He paused, looking frustrated. "We need _offensive_ weapons, if we're going to get in there and bust Dean's girl out. And we only have four bullets left in the Colt. I want to save them for the Demon, not one of its measly friends."

A sudden thought occurred to Dean. He thought about it for a few moments, then turned to his father. "I think I know how we can make those things into a weapon."

John listened grimly while Dean outlined his idea. By the time he was done, though, John was smiling. Actually _smiling_. "That's so crazy, it might actually work," John said approvingly.

The drive to Lincoln felt like the longest of Dean's life. He'd been on long drives and longer stakeouts before, it came with the territory, but this was something else. He even let Sammy drive, that's how much of a nervous wreck Dean was. Hoping that Allison was OK. Hoping that his crazy idea would work. Hoping he hadn't wrecked Dad's chance to end this thing. Even feeling stabs of guilt for involving Allison in this. But that last self-flagellation didn't last long. Like he'd told Dad, he hadn't planned this. Just like Dad had never planned for Mom to die, or Sam for Jess (or Sarah, come to think of it).

So they drove. They kept to the speed limit as much as possible, mindful of the fact that the cops might be looking out for one Dean Winchester. All the while, talking to each other over their cell phones, hatching plans, discussing strategy. Plus, once Dad had cooled down, he had apologized to Dean for his initial reaction. For acting as if Allison was expendable. Dean had gruffly accepted the apology, and then hung up. 'No chick-flick moments' applied to Dad as much as they did to Sammy.

They made a quick – really quick – stop along the way, and then got back on the road, arriving with barely twenty minutes to spare.

Dad loaded the Colt and stashed it under his jacket, then stuffed a few bags of salt into various pockets. Dean felt like all the bulges in his and Sam's jackets were visible from _miles_ away, but there was no time to do otherwise. They couldn't even stake out the place in advance. No time, and Meg was expecting all of them. They'd just have to make do and pray it worked.

The three of them cautiously entered the building. No one on the first floor, so they rode the rusty, creaky elevator to the second floor.

Dean saw Allison the moment the elevator door opened. She was bound to a chair and gagged, with two men standing behind her. More demon-possessed humans?

Dean followed John as he strode slowly out of the elevator, with Sam bringing up the rear.

The rest of the room was empty, except for what looked like a makeshift altar off to one side. And Meg, who strolled towards them out of the shadows, a pleased look on her face.

"John, Sammy, Dean. Glad you boys could make it." She smirked and looked John up and down. "The great John Winchester. I can see where the boys get their looks from, but I must say – I thought you'd be taller-"

"Skip the pleasantries, bitch," Dean rasped. "We brought the Colt. Untie Allison and let me and Sam leave with her, and then Dad'll hand the gun over." Of course, that wasn't really the plan at all.

"No," Meg said. "That's not how this is going to go."

"If I give you the Colt, how do we get out of here?" John said reasonably, almost affably.

"Not my problem, sexy. But if you don't, I'll make dear Allison's death _your_ problem."

"I could just shoot you," John said in that same casual tone.

Meg laughed. "And waste your precious bullets? Go right ahead, John-boy. You think me and my two brothers there are the only ones? Plenty more where we came from. More all the time, in fact." She shifted closer, grinning.

It wasn't going according to plan, but Dean fought to stay relaxed. Waiting for Dad's signal.

"Maybe," John said, drawing the Colt and pointing it directly at her head. "And maybe you're a little too fond of your own skin. This isn't going to send you back to Hell, not like an exorcism. It's going to _kill_ you. Period. You ready for that, sweetheart?"

Meg's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, but Dean saw it. Dad had been right. Dean forced himself not to look over at Allison. If he let himself get distracted now, they could _all_ be dead.

"Give me the Colt!" Meg demanded, starting to stalk rapidly towards them.

"Now, boys!" John ordered.

In an instant, Dean dove to one side while Sam went the other way, both of them drawing the supersoakers from under their jackets as they went.

Dean really couldn't follow what Sam was doing, but his brother must've aimed a quick shot at Meg, because she hissed and backed up as the water hit her and her flesh started to smoke.

Dean was more interested in taking out the two guys guarding Allison. He strafed the three of them with his supersoaker, knowing that Allison would be left unharmed (and confirm that she wasn't possessed herself). By the time he had reached her, it had worked perfectly, the two guys falling back and writhing in pain on the ground, and Allison damp and confused but otherwise OK. Dean could still hear the scuffle continuing behind him, but he didn't have time to wonder if Dad and Sam were doing all right with their end, he just reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife, slashing open Allison's bindings. They hadn't bothered to tie her ankles, so Dean just aimed another blast from the supersoaker at the demon-dudes again, and hauled Allison to her feet. "C'mon, Al, c'mon!" He tugged her back in the direction of the elevator, spinning around himself.

He froze. The plan had been for Sam to blast Meg with the holy water from the supersoaker, driving her backwards while Dad poured a line of salt across the entrance to the elevator. Then Dad and Sam would take cover inside it and keep Meg down with more holy water, until Dean could get Allison in there.

Instead, Dean saw Dad sprawled on the floor, bleeding and unmoving, and Sam was trying to use a Mandaic amulet to hold Meg off. Dean saw why, too – Sam's supersoaker was already empty. A quick glance confirmed that Dean's gun almost was, too. Damn it!

He only had seconds to act, and he knew it. The Colt was there, lying a few feet from Dad's limp hand. Dean pushed the supersoaker into Allison's hands and ran forward to snatch up the gun.

He _had_ it, but he only stood up just in time to see Meg bodily throwing Sam towards him. His larger brother collided with him, and they both went down.

"Sam, get _off_ me!" Dean demanded, shoving at his brother. He'd managed to hold onto the Col t, thank God, but they were probably all dead if he didn't get a chance to use it.

"Dean!" Allison suddenly screamed, and a sudden rush of adrenalin helped Dean to shove Sam off him. He scrambled to his feet.

There was Meg, holding a knife to Allison's throat.

"Drop it, now," Meg snarled, steam still rising from her flesh. Dean glanced quickly over at Sam and Dad, but there was no help there. Sam was on his knees, bloody and dazed and unarmed, and Dad was stirring but otherwise unarmed except for the salt. And the two dudes at the back of the room were already starting to recover, struggling to get back on their feet.

Dean knew he had no choice. If he didn't take the next step, Allison was dead anyways, and so were they. He raised the gun and fired.

Meg's head snapped back at the impact and she fell over, almost dragging Allison down with her. Meg's body spasmed as the bullet's power jolted into her, and then it was just over. She was dead.

They had to get out, now. Dean lunged forward and grabbed Allison's arm, dragging her back towards the elevator. She looked like she was in a state of shock, but they didn't have time for that now. "C'mon Sammy, c'mon!" Dean shouted, hauling Allison over to Dad's side. "Help me, quickly," Dean ordered Sam.

Still looking a little woozy himself, Sam helped John to his feet, the four of them staggering into the elevator. Dean dug in Dad's pocket and grabbed the salt-bag, sprinkling the contents quickly across the entrance to the elevator. None too soon, because the two demon-guys were on their feet now, snarling and stumbling towards the elevator.

"Go Sam, go!" Dean urged, watching the two of them getting closer.

Sam hit the down button and the door closed. Dean held tightly to the Colt. "Get ready to move, fast," he said to Allison. "You OK, Sam? Dad?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Dude, you've got a hard freakin' head."

"Bitch," Dean scoffed.

"Jerk," Sam retorted, supporting Dad. John's face was covered in blood, but at least he looked more _aware_ now. "Dad?" Dean asked again.

"I'm OK," he slurred. "Let's just get the Hell out of here."

The elevator doors opened, and Dean pulled Allison with him, trying to scan all around them at the same time. But the two dudes were nowhere to be seen, although Dean made sure to dump more salt in a line across the outside door as soon as they passed through it.

Cool night air hit their faces, and Dean breathed it in gratefully. He looked over at Dad, who seemed way too out of it to drive. "Sammy, you stick with Dad. You drive. Let's get back to Salvation right now. Let's move," he ordered, leading Allison to the Impala.

It was only after they'd been driving for about twenty minutes, and there was no sign of them being followed, that Dean allowed himself to relax. And to remember that he had a shellshocked girlfriend – who was maybe an _ex-_girlfriend – in the passenger seat.

"Al, look at me." She turned to face him, but he didn't like the look of her face. Pale, haunted. A nasty bruise on one cheekbone. A shallow cut across her throat where Meg had managed to cut her, while falling backwards after the shot from the Colt. "It's over. I've got you. You're safe."

"Wh-what the Hell is going _on_, Dean? First you lie to me and won't tell me what you really do for a living, and then those crazy people came to my apartment and hit me, trash my place-" Dean's hands tightened around the steering wheel. He hadn't known about _that _– "and-" she took a deep, shuddery brea th, "That's not the worst part. I must be losing my mind, because I could've sworn her eyes turned black at one point. Totally, completely black. Right in front of my eyes. I must be insane." She buried her face in her hands.

"No, Al, you're not," Dean reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "It's going to be OK."

She turned and looked at him then, really _looked_ at him. "You don't think I'm crazy," she said slowly, "because you've seen it, too. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

He nodded his head. "Lemme tell you a story."

Hours passed, while Dean laid it all out for her. The very beginning, with his mother dying, eviscerated and flamed on the ceiling of Sam's nursery. His father trying to cope, amidst charges of murder (later dropped) and accusations of insanity (never really dropped), and then meeting Missouri and finding out the truth. How his father had hauled him and Sam around the country, from place to place. Keeping them safe, and also hunting the evil things out in the dark. But always searching for that one particular monster. Not finding it, but still looking. Training him and Sam to be hunters, as well.

"It's what I do," he said at one point. "We don't get paid. We don't get recognition. But it's the right thing to do, so we do it. We already know the Demon won't leave us alone anyways. Better to take the offensive, than to be sitting ducks. And take down a few other evil bastards along the way."

He told her about Jessica. About how John had disappeared, and about how Dean and Sam had gotten together again, looking for him, honing their hunting skills. He showed her the Colt, still stuck in his belt, and explained to her what it was and what it did.

He explained to her about demons, and _the _Demon, and possession.

When he was done, she just sat there, staring out the windshield, and not knowing what to think. She understood perfectly why he'd lied, now. If she hadn't seen those things for herself – the strange rituals over the goblet, Meg's eyes, the way their flesh had smoked when the water (holy water, Dean had said) hit them – she would've had him committed immediately.

It was utterly insane. It didn't fit into what she believed of the world. That people lived and died. That people got sick, and often could be cured by medical science. _Science_. She had enough trouble believing in God, let alone the Devil or monsters.

Dean shifted, uncomfortable with the silence, but he waited. Allison had a lot to process, and he was going to let her do it. She'd just had everything she believed she knew about the world turned on its ear. It wasn't like him and Sammy, who had grown up knowing nothing else.

"How…how do you live like this?" she finally asked, turning to look at him.

Dean shook his head. "No choice. That Demon has it in for my family. I'm not going to sit by and let it carry out whatever plans it has. And all those innocent people out there, they need people like us. Hunters, people who will protect them. Besides, this job's not without its perks." He grinned over at her.

But she didn't respond to his smile, and Dean turned his attention uneasily back to the road. Allison hadn't asked to be dragged into this, he reminded himself. "For what it's worth," he said in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the road in front of them, "I'm sorry, Al. I never intended for you to become a target. I never really planned any of this. I don't usually do relationships. Our lifestyle is too fucked-up for that."

Allison looked over at Dean, but he was very deliberately not meeting her gaze this time. She heard the self-recrimination in his voice, and knew he was blaming himself. But, if she asked herself honestly, did she wish that she'd never met Dean?

No.

She touched his arm. "I know you didn't mean for this to happen. And I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have been so quick to cut you off like that."

"That mean I'm still 'Mr. Cameron'?" he asked, trying for lightness. But he couldn't hide all the tension he was feeling.

"Yes," she said, "I guess I was just really rattled when the cops came and showed me your picture, and said you were a serial killer."

Dean gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah, that's another long story. I'll tell it to you sometime." He scrubbed his hand over his face. Damn, but he could barely keep his eyes open. They were only halfway back to Salvation, too.

Not to mention, Allison probably needed some food, and some rest. They all did. Coming to a decision, Dean pulled out his cell phone.

"Let's pull off at the next motel, Sammy," he said to his little brother. "We've got lots more driving ahead of us, and we're not going to be able to do much good if we're asleep on our feet when we get back to Salvation. Or if we get involved in a crash on the way. Besides, we probably still have a few days or so before the big badass comes to town."

Dean waited, bracing himself for Dad to object. But no, after a quick conference with their father, Sam was agreeing. Wonders never cease, Dean thought.

They got two rooms at some fleabag six miles down the road, but Dean wasn't arguing. He led Allison into one of the two rooms, telling her to make herself comfortable, and then went to see Dad and Sam in the adjoining room.

Or he tried, anyways. Dad was already sprawled on one of the motel beds, snoring, when he came in. It worried Dean a bit. He glanced over at Sam, who was lounging in the room's single rickety chair. "Whoa. Did Meg give Dad a concussion, or something?"

"Hell if I know," answered Sam with a shrug. "Hey, Allison's a doctor, right? Maybe she should take a look at him."

Dean doubted Allison was in any fit state to treat anybody right now, but Dad looked OK to him, if exhausted. "Well, I guess he seems all right for now. Heck, he always used to drag his ass home and sleep for a day after a big hunt, right?"

"From what I remember," Sam agreed.

"Just keep an eye on him, OK? If anything changes, come get me. We'll nap for awhile, then hit the road again."

"Sounds good," Sam said, rubbing at a purple bruise on his arm.

Dean raided a few vending machines on his way back to their room. Allison was still in the same position as he'd left her, seated slumped-over on the bed. "Here, Al. It's not a five-course gourmet meal, but it'll do."

She took the packages from his hands, smiling a little at them. "Doritos, Combos, and Cheez-Its." Well, it was better than nothing. "You sure know how to show a girl a good time," she joked, tentatively. She was too tired and wrung out to fight this. Best to just _go _with it.

He smiled and sat on the bed beside her, shedding his jacket. "Pass the appetizers, would you?"

They shared the food – plus a few tattered Power Bars Dean found at the bottom of his bag – and sat in near silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

Dean was trying to plot out what to do next. He couldn't let Allison go home, that was clear. She'd been targeted once, and they'd no doubt come for her again. Could he convince her to stay with them? Or, more importantly, could he make Dad agree to let her tag along?

Allison's thoughts were a complete jumble. She kept seeing Meg's face, with her eyes going black. Memories of the two strange men trashing her apartment. Mental pictures of Dean bursting in, guns blazing (or rather, squirting).

Soon, that image was all that she was seeing. Because she remembered something. Remembered her HIV scare, and how she'd needed somebody to be there for her, and how House had shut her out. Even laughed at her expense. The first time in her life she'd been that close to death, and the man she'd been in love with had barely reacted. Or cared. House hadn't lifted a finger to help her. Probably wouldn't have in this situation, either.

Not Dean. Dean had risked his life to save hers. He'd made a promise to save her, and he'd kept that promise. If Dean had been there when she'd been exposed to HIV, he wouldn't have turned his back on her. Unlike other men in Allison's life.

Allison stretched out her hand and touched the side of Dean's face. "You…you came for me."

"Damn straight," Dean answered, looking deep into her eyes for a second, before the intimacy of the situation became too much for him and he had to look away again. "'Course I did." He couldn't bring himself to say he loved her. He could say as much to Dad, when it came to convincing John to help save her, but saying it to Allison herself? He couldn't go there, couldn't make himself do that just yet. "You mean a lot to me." But even that felt like a dangerous admission, so he covered it up with a joke, "How many other chicks out there are as kinky as you?"

Allison laughed, but she'd seen the truth in his face. So despite the fact that she felt awful – she knew she stank of fear-sweat, and that her hair was greasy and tangled – she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.

If he was put-off by her current state, he hid it well, kissing her passionately, his hands stroking her back and shoulders. Still, she'd feel more human after she cleaned up a bit, she decided. "Do you mind if I grab a quick shower, Dean? I feel really dirty."

"Not in the good way, I'm guessing," he smirked at her.

"No," she chuckled.

"Of course, go right ahead. Save me some hot water, OK? There's some soap and shampoo in my duffle if you need it."

"No problem, and thanks." She gave him another kiss, and then she headed for the bathroom. No, no soap at all – what a _cheap_ place – so she collected what she needed from Dean's bag. The thought of having to put the same dirty clothes on again after the shower made her shudder, but there was no help for it.

At least the water pressure was half-decent, as she discovered when she got into the tub and turned the shower on. It took forever for it to get hot enough, but then she just closed her eyes, standing gratefully under the spray, letting it massage the aches out of her.

The curtain was suddenly drawn aside, and a very naked and smirking Dean was climbing into the tub behind her. "Hello, beautiful," he said. "Come here often?"

She shook her head and looked salaciously over her shoulder at him. "Let me guess, you decided to do your part for the environment by conserving water."

He grinned. He'd always appreciated her brains. "Damn right, girl." His mood darkened, however, when he saw again the ugly bruise developing on Allison's face. The demon inhabiting Meg had died too _quickly_, he thought vindictively. But at least it wasn't coming back.

"Pass me the shampoo, I'll even do your hair for you. My version of 'Room Service'," he winked at her, making an effort to put his more hunting-related thoughts behind him. At least for now.

He soon discovered that he liked washing her hair. He liked having the soft strands wrapped around his fingers, and she shivered most interestingly and made nice noises of appreciation when he massaged her scalp. It gave him a few ideas, in fact.

Dean guided her back under the shower to rinse the foam away, and then found himself kissing her, desperately, urgently. He'd come so close to losing her. Close to buying the farm himself. It made him pull her tight against him, made him kiss her like he'd never get the chance to do this again.

There was so much he wanted to say. So much he was feeling. So relieved she was safe, and that they were together again, even here in this dingy dive of a bathroom.

He didn't know if this was love, or what most people would call love. He just knew that her body belonged in his arms. That it felt _right_. It was simple as that. But he knew he couldn't say something like that to her.

Way too flowery and 'chick-flicky'.

It was easier to release her with a final kiss, and then scoop up the soap. He lathered it up in his palms, leering at her the whole time.

Allison was pretty sure she knew what Dean had planned, and she wasn't going to say no. Those talented hands, greased with soap and sliding all over her? It made her knees weak already and he hadn't even touched her yet.

He started with her shoulders, rubbing the soap into her smooth, pale skin. He let his fingers follow the line of her collarbone, making a side trip to slip gently over her throat (avoiding the shallow knife-slice) and the sides of her neck. Then down over her breasts.

Dean's palms covered her nipples, rubbing lightly, and Allison moaned and pushed herself against him. "Still the tease, Stee-_Winchester_." That was going to take some getting used to. Though she had to admit she liked the sound of it.

Dean gave her a crooked half-smile. He looked adorable, his hair wet and plastered to his head, muscles glistening wetly. And his erection looked pretty tempting, too. "I like the way you say my name, baby," he purred back at her, hands leaving her nipples to glide slickly down her belly, massaging the soapy foam in circles. "Wouldn't mind hearing you scream it in ecstasy, come to think of it."

She laughed and splashed him with water. "God, no matter what your name is, the ego's the same, isn't it?"

"I've earned it, haven't I, Al?" he asked, making a wounded expression that was so overdone it was obviously false.

"Maybe," she lied, "I'll have to think about it. Rescuing me from three possessed people _is_ pretty high on my 'things I want my men to know how to do well' list."

Dean grinned and kissed her again, although he got a mouthful of water from the shower when he pulled back, and he had to spend a few moments in undignified coughing while Allison giggled behind her hand and pounded him on the back.

He snatched up the soap to work up a fresh lather, soaping up her arms. He gritted his teeth anew at the red marks on her wrists – fucking demons – from the bindings. Still, she'd gotten off relatively easy, all things considered.

"Turn around, so I can do your back," he ordered her. Other areas, too, but he'd let that be a surprise.

She was happy to turn and brace her hands on the tiled wall, to let the warm water beat down over her shoulders while Dean scrubbed along her back and sides. There was a pause, during which she assumed he was working up another lather, and then slow teasing hands were circling her ankle and making a slow path up her leg. Paying particular attention to her inner thigh. She arched her back, gasping, and felt his lips brush over the curve of her ass.

Dean switched to her other leg, smirking. The water running along Allison's back and splashing into his face was a damned pain, but it was worth it. He had a great view of that gorgeous ass, those long legs, and all the interesting areas in between. He finished soaping her upper thighs, then ran his hands over her curvaceous rear end.

He grabbed for the soap a final time, working up the biggest lather yet, and then nudged Allison's legs gently further apart. He let one hand massage the soap into the delicate depression between her cheeks, teasing all the sensitive nerves there, and let his other hand work the lather slowly into the dark, wet curls beneath.

She moaned loudly, a sound that echoed pleasingly, and Dean pressed more firmly, easing soapy fingers between her folds and sliding them in a circle around the stiff little bud of her clit. She was even more slippery here, but whether it was the soap or her own fluids he couldn't tell.

He wanted to, though. "Time to rinse off, baby," he coaxed, taking hold of her and positioning her under the spray to rinse all traces of soap away.

Dean let her turn around and brace her hands against the wall again, and he kneeled down behind her. He tugged her a bit backwards so the water pouring down her back wouldn't drown him, and then brushed his lips over the dripping curls between her thighs.

She didn't taste like anything at first. Slightly of soap, perhaps. Until his probing tongue worked its way inside her, and then he could taste her again, feel the slick honey under his tongue. It made him want to tease her, see if he could persuade her body into producing more for him. He let his tongue curl around her clit, stroking, while his hands wrapped themselves around her thighs, his thumbs caressing her.

Allison groaned deep in her throat, digging her nails into the edges of the tiling. Her head was spinning, from the heat and steam and the wicked things Dean was doing between her legs, and she wondered how much longer she'd be able to stay standing like this.

Besides, she had needs, too. She waited until Dean paused for breath, and then she reached behind herself to catch at his wrists.

"Time for me to return the favour, Dean," she said. "Get up."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, grinning and licking his lips. She ignored his attempts to distract her – a hand 'accidentally' glancing across her nipple, or 'mistakenly' groping her rear, all while he put on an innocent expression and said "Oh, oops, 'scuse me, miss." – while she maneuvered around him to get to the soap.

He stood there obediently enough when she began massaging him with soapy hands, however. She followed his earlier lead, starting with his strong shoulders, then his lightly-stubbled throat, and then sliding down over his pectoral muscles. She tweaked his nipples lightly, and he bit off a groan. She got another handful of soap and did his arms, then tiny circles along his belly. He tensed as she got lower and lower, shooting her a mock-annoyed look when she winked and ordered him to turn around.

Her grin faded when she saw the damage the rescue had done to his back. Probably from his fall, when he'd been slammed into by a 6'5" missile named Sam. Dark purple bruises, and a few small cuts and abrasions. "Do they hurt?" she asked softly, lightly touching one of the larger bruises.

"Not when you're busy distracting me," Dean suggested helpfully. He'd had worse. Much worse.

Her hands were on his ass now, kneading lightly, and he grinned. "Someone's liking my '_ass_-ets'."

She groaned. "Yeah, well that's not _all_ of you I like. Turn back around," she told him. He grinned knowingly as she soaped up his legs with long, deliberate strokes. "Only one spot left to clean," he pointed out.

She smirked at him as she worked up another rich lather. "Thanks for the reminder."

"You're welcome," he replied, although considering how obviously aroused he was, she'd have to be blind not to notice. "Helpful is my middle nam-"

He had to close his eyes and lean against the wall as two slick, soapy hands slid around and over him. Slender fingers teased at his balls, gently tugging, lightly massaging. While her other hand wrapped tightly around his aching erection, pumping up and down with maddening slowness.

"Christ, Allison," he rasped. He swayed slightly on his feet as she had her evil way with his family jewels, until he couldn't take it any more. He pushed her hands away, and turned to face the spray, letting the water wash him clean. "Rinse your hands," he instructed her.

"But I didn't do your hair-"

"_Fuck_ my hair," Dean opined. He waited until her hands were soap-free, and then he turned the water off and shoved the curtain back.

Allison watched bemused as Dean first climbed out of the tub, and then dug through the pockets of his jeans, cursing quietly to himself and dripping water everywhere. "What are you-?" she started to ask.

He held up a condom packet between two fingers. "Come over here. I'm about to assert my rescuer's rights."

She snorted with amusement behind her hand but got out of the tub, not even stopping to squeeze the water out of her hair because Dean looked _that_ impatient.

That was how she wound up bent over the bathroom counter, water running in ticklish trickles down her skin as Dean thrust strongly into her from behind. But this was more than their usual frenzied joining. She could see his face reflected in the dingy mirror over the scarred sink, and he could see hers. It was a degree of connection that they didn't usually have in this kind of sexual situation. Added to the relief of being alive and relatively unharmed, after a frightening time for both of them.

Dean's heart was racing in his chest, his green eyes locked to Allison's in the mirror. So damned close to losing her…no, never again. When she closed her eyes and her head drooped, shuddering as she came, he gave a low choked growl and came himself, hands wrapped possessively around her hips. Mine, he thought.

No one else's.

A few hours' nap, and a quick conference with Sam and John later, and they were back on the road. Allison had felt a bit awkward, meeting the both of them for the first time under those circumstances. But Sam had been friendly, shaking her hand and telling her in a sincere tone that he was glad she was all right. John had been more distant, more reserved. He'd almost growled his introduction, barely able to meet her eyes.

It puzzled her, that the elder Winchester seemed to dislike her on sight, but she supposed from what Dean had told her that the kidnapping situation had put John's lifelong quest at risk. It bothered her, that he seemed to be _blaming_ her, and for something that wasn't even her fault, but she decided to let it go for now. Maybe, with time, John would be more accepting of her.

Back in the Impala with Dean, while his younger brother kept their father company in the truck, Allison had a few moments to think. Things still didn't make much sense to her, the pieces still didn't fit together in any way that she liked, but she supposed that, too, would come with time.

It was when they blew past a town sign that she suddenly realized something; that the real world hadn't ceased to exist behind her. That there still was an ornery boss and two colleagues back in Princeton, likely wondering why she hadn't called in sick or shown up to work yet.

"Dean, wait," she said, almost panicking at the thought of how House must have reacted to her unexplained absence. "You have to take me home."

He shook his head, looking over at her in disbelief. "You're kidding, right, Al? You'd be in danger. You need to stick close to me."

She stared back at him. "I can't just drop _everything_, leave my life and my job behind-"

"Yes, you _can_," Dean objected. "Weren't you listening earlier? I told you, this Demon killed my mother, then Sam's fiancée. You told me yourself, Meg seemed to be talking to someone. I'll bet it was the big badass himself. Besides, she said there's more of them out there. You really think they won't make another try for you, if I let you go home unprotected? No, you're staying with me. That's not negociable."

His hands were white-knuckled around the steering wheel, and she'd never heard him speak in that tone of voice. He was _terrified_, she realized. It made her afraid again, too, wondering what these monsters were, that could cause Dean to react this way. She'd seen only the tip of the iceberg, she was starting to suspect.

Dean took a slow breath, obviously fighting to relax, and continued: "Besides, this is almost over. Dad's got a bead on the Demon. We think it's going to show up in Salvation, Iowa, sometime around the end of this week. We think that it'll try to destroy another family the way it did ours. That's where we're headed now, and if we can find out when and where it will attack, we can take the Colt and kill it." He reached across the seat, wrapping icy fingers around her hand. "Then it'll all be over, and you can go home again. And maybe I can finally have a normal life, and stop being a freak."

The last sentence was said so quietly, Allison wasn't sure she'd heard him right. But if it was true, if this was all going to be over soon like he said, she supposed she could do this for him.

"Just another week. _Less, _even. Please, Allison," Dean gave her a pleading look, and that decided her. She squeezed his hand in return.

"OK," she said. Still, she couldn't leave her PPTH teammates totally in the dark. "But can I at least _call_ House?"

"Why?" Dean asked, scowling.

"Because it's not right for me to just disappear with no word to anyone. I'm part of a diagnostic team, they _depend_ on me." She paused as another thought occurred to her. "If you got called away for some reason, wouldn't you let Sam and your father know what was going on? Didn't you tell me how much it bothered you when John went missing? House may not be the nicest boss on the planet, but he still deserves to know that I'm all right, and roughly when I'll be back." Privately, she believed that House was likely _furious_ at her for missing work. Maybe even a bit worried about her, though she doubted it.

"Fine," Dean said after a long pause. He reached into a pocket and handed her his cell. "But don't you go telling him where we are, or where we're going."

She looked at him in consternation. "Why not?"

"Because anyone, anywhere, could be a friend of the Demon's. And we wouldn't know until it was too late. Didn't Meg and her friends seem pretty normal to you? Except for the whole black eyes and altar and knife-fetish thing, that is?"

"You're saying _House _could be possessed?" It would explain a lot – haha - but Allison didn't buy it.

"No, I'm saying we have to be _careful_. That we won't always know who's on our side and who isn't. So we need to play it safe, at least until this is over."

"Dean-"

"This'll all be over by the end of the week, so why take chances? Please, just do this for me. Call it my reward for saving your ass."

I thought your reward was the sex we just had, she almost joked, but Dean was obviously deadly serious. "OK," she replied.

"And another thing – don't even tell him you're with me. If the cops really are out looking for me, the last thing we need is them getting in our way as we're trying to kill the Demon."

It made sense, but it sure didn't leave Allison much to actually _say_ to House. Still, her conscience wouldn't let her leave House wondering (she knew how he loathed puzzles that he couldn't solve), so she dialed his home number and waited.

He picked up two seconds into her halting phone message. "So nice of you to finally remember you have a paying job," he said cuttingly.

For a moment, Allison almost hung up the phone. She'd been knocked around and kidnapped by demon-possessed people, been forced to watch them trash her place, and then had a knife held to her throat. She wasn't really in the mood for House's sarcasm.

"I was in _trouble_, House," she said sharply, ignoring Dean's warning look.

"I don't care. I don't even care that you decided to go all urban-demo décor at your place-"

"What?" House had been to her place? She wondered why he had bothered.

He kept on going, ignoring her. "I just want to know when you're going to be back here _doing your job_."

She swallowed hard, but she had no choice. "Not for a little while longer," she said, struggling to stay calm. "Another week, most likely. Things aren't totally dealt with-"

"What the Hell is going on, Cameron? Where the Hell are you?"

"I- I can't tell you that. Not yet," she stammered. This was harder than she'd expected.

"What? Did that fucking _pizza boy_ kidnap you?"

She was tempted to tell him to mind his own business, and then hang up. But she was going to go through with this. Maybe I should've called Wilson or Foreman instead, she thought grimly.

"No. This has nothing to do with him," she lied. Everybody lies. "Look, House, all I can tell you is that I'm safe. I was in serious trouble, and now I'm safe. But I can't come back yet."

"What the fuck does that _mean_, Cameron?"

"I can't go into that now, House. I just called so that you-" But she couldn't say 'wouldn't worry' to him.

"You have to do better than that! I _need_ my immunologist. People are busy dying, and I need my team at full strength to help save them. And all you can say is 'I can't tell you'?" He was yelling, and Allison yanked her head away from the phone, grimacing.

For one moment, Allison considered disobeying Dean and giving House a reason to think she was a candidate for a rubber room. _Well, House, it's like this. Dean hunts ghosts and demons for a living, and some of them decided to get back at him by kidnapping me. But he came and rescued me, and now he wants me to stay close by while he takes out a major player. Helluva world, isn't it?_

"I can't do better than that, House." Now she knew how Dean had felt during their own phone conversation along these lines. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."

"Wait!" House said loudly, and she paused. There was only silence on the line, but then he gave a heavy sigh. "If I can't have my immunologist with me in body, then will you at least do our latest patient a favour and be with me in spirit?"

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" she retorted, having an uncharacteristically tense reaction to his use of the word 'spirit'.

Would anything ever feel _normal_ again to her, after this?

"You don't want to come back here, and I need an immunologist, stat." There was the rustle of papers in the background.

"42 year-old male, initially admitted to ER complaining of a rash on his chest…." House listed off a bevy of symptoms, then paused.

"Differential diagnosis, Dr. Cameron?"


	5. Chapter 5: War is Hell

**A Welcome Distraction: War is Hell**

**Author: starhawk2005 **

**Allison is safe, and the Winchesters get ready to take on the Demon in Salvation, Iowa. In the meantime, House is getting distinctly uncomfortable back in jolly old Princeton.**

**Disclaimer: Dude, this job has its perks, but owning any of these characters ain't one of them. Woe.  
Author Notes: Thanks to the 'Weapons Box' website for serving as a resource for the contents of the Impala's trunk. I'm Canadian and thus know next to nothing about firearms.**

Amazingly, the unreality of it all was starting to wear off. It helped that Allison had the anchor of regular calls to House every few hours. Their patient wasn't doing so well, and she hadn't felt right just letting it go. So she kept on calling him, unwilling to give House her phone number just in case the cops were trying to trace the call, all so she could find out the latest test findings and offer some potential diagnoses.

Dean scowled darkly every time she asked him to stop and let her use a pay phone, but otherwise didn't say anything. Maybe he understood that she needed this, that she needed some reminder of her old, sane life to keep her from totally freaking out. Whatever the reason, he didn't try to stop her or talk her out of it anymore, not after the first time.

When they got to the outskirts of Salvation, Iowa, another conference between the three Winchesters took place, while Allison sat nervously behind them in the Impala, drumming her fingers on her knees. Dean's tension had been increasing steadily, as they'd gotten closer and closer to their destination, and Allison herself was starting to feel very tense, wondering how _she_ fit into their plans.

Would they leave her in a motel room somewhere while they went after the Demon? She thought that would be pretty unbearable. What if something happened and all three of them were hurt? What if she was left all alone in that motel room, wondering for hours or _days_ what had happened to them?

It wasn't a comforting thought.

Finally, Dean came sauntering back to the Impala. He was trying to act casual, but Allison could still read the lines of tension in his body. The observational skills House had verbally beaten into her for two years were still in operation, apparently.

"You and I are gonna do some shopping," he informed her, sliding behind the steering wheel. "And Dad and Sammy are going to find us a place to hole up," he added before she could ask.

Allison looked over at John, still deep in conversation with Sam, and noticed the blood still soaking John's clothing. "Dean, shouldn't I at least take a look at all of you, first? Your father might have a concussion, and you all have cuts and abrasions, at the very least. I'm still a doctor." Even if you won't let me go home and back to my life right now, she added silently.

Dean smacked himself on the forehead with his palm. "Damn it, Al, you're right. I think Dad has a first-aid kit in his truck…"

John did, and since they were on a dirt road with little traffic, Allison decided to look at everyone then and there, kicking herself mentally for not checking everyone out before now.

Dean and Sam both mainly had bruises, which she couldn't do much for, and some minor cuts and abrasions that she applied ointment and bandages to. No broken bones, which she was thankful for. She also allowed Dean to disinfect and bandage the shallow knife-slice Meg had left on her neck.

Treating John was more of an issue. Allison was no expert on concussions, and as much as Foreman had annoyed her lately with the whole article-stealing debacle, she wished he was there and could give her his expert opinion. Still, she ran through all the symptoms she was familiar with when it came to concussions, checking each with John. Also with Sam, since he'd spent the most time with John since the rescue attempt and therefore might have noticed any odd behaviours on John's part.

John said he hadn't had any headaches or nausea, no dizziness or confusion, no blurred vision, no apparent memory impairments. Yes, he'd fallen dead asleep at their first motel stop after the rescue, but Allison didn't think that counted as 'abnormal sleepiness', given the circumstances and how easily John had woken up afterwards, according to Sam.

Still, she told them all she recommended bed rest in cases like this, something which earned her a smirk from Dean, an amused look from Sam, and an _irritated_ look from John, before he smoothed it over. "With all due respect, Dr. Cameron, that's not an option."

Yeah, she'd figured. She made a mental note to privately tell Dean and Sam to keep an eye on him, though, to make sure John didn't start displaying any of the symptoms she'd mentioned, at least for the next few days. Watching for post-concussion syndrome, or other serious symptoms like confusion or severe headaches. Again, she wished she was at PPTH and could give John an MRI to check for edema or hematomas, but of course that wasn't possible. She doubted she'd be able to convince John to go to a hospital to check, either. She'd just have to rely on their combined observational skills.

She could, however, do something about the deep cut on John's forehead. It took about three stitches, and she had to admire the fact John barely flinched, even without anesthetic.

But something about the whole thing was still making her uncomfortable – beyond the obvious craziness of the entire situation, that is. Dean and Sam had their backs to John and Allison, looking over maps of Salvation and plotting the next move, so they probably wouldn't have noticed, but Allison herself could've sworn that John was glaring at her behind her back. She kept feeling the burn of his gaze on the back of her neck, but whenever she turned, trying to catch him at it, he was always looking somewhere else, or staring blankly into the middle distance. Still, her intuition told her that the elder Winchester was less than happy with her.

It was really creeping her out, actually. Did Dean's father _really _see her as that much of a liability?

In the end, Allison just finished bandaging John's head-wound and did her best to smile and be friendly. Working with both Gregory House and angry patients had made it necessary for her to learn quickly how to 'fake' pleasantness, a skill that she'd never thought she'd be thankful for in the larger world outside the hospital. "There you go, Mr. Winchester."

He rumbled his thanks at her, and then got up and went to join his boys.

Allison restrained a frustrated shake of her head at John's behaviour, and packed everything neatly back into the first aid kit.

She'd barely finished when Dean came to join her. "So, shall we go do some shopping? I figure we need to get you some stuff. Girly stuff, so you'll be more comfortable. Like a toothbrush." He winked at her and took her hand, but it still seemed forced to Allison. Like he was only _half_ with her. The other half making plans. Allison had never been in the military nor known anyone who had served, but she imagined a soldier's attention was much like this before a big battle.

She squeezed his hand lightly, smiling at him. "You're right, I've got nothing." Of course, she probably had nothing at _home_, either, given what Meg and her friends had done to Allison's apartment, but she put that thought aside for now. Focus on the present, because the big picture was just too much to handle right now.

Allison cheered up a little bit, however, when Dean seemed to come back to himself more fully. He leaned in and kissed her, obviously not caring whether Sam or John saw him do so, and then tugged her in the direction of the Impala. "I'm glad you're here," he said gruffly. They both heard what he left unsaid: "Where I can protect you."

It took them over an hour, and Dean tried not to mind that too much. Shopping for toiletries was kind of boring, but it was no hardship watching Allison model a pair or two of low-rise, tight-fitting jeans. He also managed to convince her to buy a set of racy red lingerie, so it wasn't _all_ a waste.

He didn't like the way people were looking at them, though. Allison, with her bandaged throat and bruised cheek, looked like she'd been a victim of domestic violence, and many of the people in the stores they went to started to glare at Dean when they realized the two of them were together…until Dean decided to take off his jacket and let the prying onlookers see the bruises on _his _elbows and the bandages on _his_ arms. "Car accident," he rasped at one of the more curious onlookers, and finally, when it became evident that Allison wasn't afraid of Dean, and was starting to get annoyed at their stares herself, the other shoppers finally got the hint and left them alone.

Even without that extra annoyance, however, an internal struggle was taking place inside of Dean. He was _split_ now, in a way he never had been before, not even with Cassie. Part of him wanted to be the nurturer, the caring boyfriend who made sure his girl had what she needed to be comfortable (or as comfortable as possible given the present circumstances). But most of him, the hunter, wanted to be with Dad and Sam, plotting their next steps, figuring out how to go about finding the Demon, so they could lie in wait for the bastard. Shopping was only taking one _hour_, the boyfriend part insisted, yet the hunter part groused that every moment counted, and that he was losing valuable strategy-planning time while playing 'house' with Allison.

Finally, though, he was able to relax, reminding himself that this was Dad's battle, and Dad probably already knew what he wanted to do, practically right down to the second. That had always been how things worked with Dean and his father; Dean had always been just the foot soldier, following Dad's lead wherever it led, and Dad had made all the big 'military' decisions. Dean had never had a problem with that, and that would probably happen this time, too.

Besides, did he really want to be forced to play mediator between Dad and Sammy again? No thanks. He hoped he'd get lucky and Dad and Sam wouldn't be fighting tooth and nail when he and Allison got back.

Dean watched Allison hunt around for deodorant and soap and other girly things, and he thought back to the quick conversation he'd had with Dad about her, obviously out of earshot, before leaving for this little shopping trip.

By that point, he hadn't yet told Dad about his intention to keep Allison with them, and Dean had frankly expected a fight about it. About putting Allison in danger again, or maybe about the foolishness of hauling around 'dead weight' (at which point Dean had planned to interject that Allison was a doctor, and weren't they often in need of hospital care?).

But, much to Dean's surprise, Dad had agreed to keeping Allison with them, without even a murmur of protest. John had just nodded curtly, and gone back to rummaging in the weapons case in the back of his truck.

Now, strolling slowly after Allison while she went around picking out essentials, he thought back to that conversation with Dad. Or rather, the _lack_ of conversation.

Something felt a bit off, but Dean wasn't sure what. He couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't shake the feeling that not only was something wrong, but that something _big_ might be wrong.

He tried to find a rational explanation, debating silently with himself while Al went about her business. Maybe just having Allison around was changing the dynamic between the three of them. Maybe Dad was remembering how Dean had stood up to him when they'd gone to get the Colt from the vampires, or how Dean had stood up to him about going to rescue Allison. Maybe after so many years of being devoted to Mom's memory, Dad understood that Dean could be just as loyal to his own significant other. Or at least that it would be useless to argue with Dean about it.

Or, maybe Dad had just been hit harder over the head than Dean had thought. Thank God Allison had checked Dad out and decided he was OK.

All in all, Dean was glad when he and Allison made it back to the Impala relatively quickly. He'd told Dad to give them two to three hours to get some essentials, and they were doing fine for time, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.

Allison had balked a bit at the credit card with the "Phil Rudd" name he'd used back at the cashier, but he reminded her quietly now that the Winchesters weren't getting a salary for what they did. "And we can't use your credit card," he added, "because the cops are most likely watching for that. If they think I've kidnapped you."

Allison nodded. "OK. Should we pop the trunk and put the bags in there?"

Dean couldn't help grinning at the thought of putting such _domestic_ items in on top of the shotguns and holy water ampoules and bags of rock salt. "Not much room in there, baby, sorry."

"What? What've you got in there?"

That's right, she hadn't yet seen the arsenal in the Impala's trunk. Dean glanced quickly around, but they were at the back end of a large parking lot and no one was nearby, so he stashed the shopping bags on the backseat of the car and then opened the trunk, lifting the false bottom and propping it open with the ease of long practice.

He grinned again at the expected shocked look on her face. He couldn't resist pointing out a few of his 'babies'. "Taurus, Model 92, 9mm," he said, pointing. "A Beretta 92, 9mm. Colt revolver, 6-shot, .357." He also pointed out to her the sawed-off shotgun, the Winchester shotguns (she smirked a little at that), the rock salt, the crumpled plastic bottle of holy water, some random knives, and some other things.

"But this is my _real_ baby," he said proudly, checking again to make sure they weren't being observed. He pulled his favourite gun from the holster hidden under his arm. "Colt 1911, .45 caliber, semi-automatic. And we can't forget this," he added, lifting the bottom of his t-shirt quickly to show her _the_ Colt once again. The special Colt. The one that could help them rid the world forever of the monster that had brought so much pain to their family.

But she had her hand to her mouth and was _giggling_. "What's so funny?" he asked, confused, stashing the guns away again.

She smiled. "Oh, I was just remembering that night when I first met you. At the bar. I remember thinking on the way out how dangerous it could be, taking a stranger home with me. How you could have an axe in your trunk, or something. And I was right- there it is!" She pointed to the grimy hatchet wedged into the back corner of the Impala's trunk, and Dean chuckled.

"Yep, I had an axe all along. Thank God I didn't pop the trunk in front of you that night, huh? You would've run screaming in the other direction."

She leaned over and kissed him. "Let's get out of here before someone notices your gun fetish."

Dean dropped the false bottom back into place and slammed the trunk closed. "Nothing wrong with a gun fetish in my business. Besides, it's only _one_ of my fetishes." He looked her up and down, just to be sure she got the message.

She rolled her eyes as she slid into the passenger seat, but she was still smiling. He got into the car himself, smiling inwardly at how much more relaxed he felt now.

Maybe having Al along wasn't such a bad idea.

They sat in the car for a moment while Dean was calling Sam, trying to find out where they were staying. It turned out Sam and John had found a rough log cabin, located in the middle of nowhere. Allison thought that was a strange place to stay, given the circumstances. Was isolating themselves really that much of a good idea? But she reminded herself she knew nothing about hunting nor their lifestyle, so she held her tongue.

Getting there took them along little-used dirt roads and vast fields of tall grass, and she could see Dean's tension increasing again, minute by minute. Finally, a naughty idea to help him with that tension occurred to her.

"Dean, pull over," she said.

"What?" he looked questioningly over at her.

"Pull over," she repeated.

"Um, OK." He did as she asked, put the Impala in park, and turned to look at her.

She twined her fingers in his hair, pulling him gently forward, and kissed him deeply. Dean had been doing his best to take care of her, she figured now it was time to take care of him. Give him a mental break – however brief – from what they were facing.

Dean didn't argue. In fact, his arms were around her, pulling her against him, and he was kissing her back. Or trying to. The steering while was doing its best to get in the way.

Dean broke off the kiss. "Backseat. Now," he said in a low voice, and Allison giggled and moved to follow his order while he turned the key in the ignition, killing the motor's low rumble.

The backseat _was_ much more comfortable. She found herself sprawled on her back, Dean lying on top of her, kissing her and caressing her hair. "This reminds me of our first night together, too," he said to her.

Allison grinned up at him. "Don't tell me you're about to whip out the handcuffs."

He shook his head. "I've still got them – they're somewhere in the trunk - but I can't be bothered right now." He kissed her again, tongue slipping into her mouth, and his hand sliding lightly down her throat, carefully avoiding the bandaging.

This time it was slower, more careful than their recent playtime in the shower had been. Dean undid each button of her shirt, slow and unhurried, then teased her exposed skin with light fingertips and gentle nibbles. She arched, liquid pleasure running through her veins, and reached to unhook her bra for him.

His stubble was rough against her sensitive nipples, but it only fueled the slow blaze inside her. It made the softness of his mouth all the more pleasurable, the quick darts of his tongue as he lapped at her a bath of sweet sensations that she wanted to soak in, drown in.

She sat up and yanked his jacket off, then his denim shirt, and finally the green t-shirt he was wearing, though she paused to let him pull off both Colts, check the safeties, and then put both guns on the floor of the Impala. She pressed kisses all over his chest, marveling as always at his smooth, soft skin and hard muscles, until he pressed her back down on the worn leather again and started to strip off her jeans and panties.

Allison closed her eyes and spread her legs as wide as she could in the confined space, as Dean gently eased back the folds of skin, exposing her. He let her feel his breath, hot and moist, before he let her feel the touch of his tongue. She gasped his name and dug her fingers into the seat cushions.

"I'm here, baby," he purred, before teasing her mercilessly, his tongue first coiling into the centre of her, and then coming back out to sweep broadly across her clit.

She didn't know how long he was at it – time seemed to stretch out, then contract upon itself – but suddenly he paused, consternation on his face. "Oh crap. I just realized something! We have no condoms."

Her body felt like it was on fire with need. "I don't _care_, Dean. Don't you _dare _stop!"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean smirked up at her, then went back to work. Long fingers slipped into her, gently turning and twisting, stimulating every nerve ending, and he was sucking on her now, those sinful lips sealed around her most sensitive spot, driving her higher and higher. She shuddered and came apart – so to speak - around him.

She sat up, arming sweat off her forehead, and guided Dean up until he was sitting next to her. "We should get back," Dean said quietly, his brow creasing with worry, "Dad's probably expect-"

His words cut off most amusingly when she reached for the zipper of his jeans. "He can wait twenty minutes," Allison said, sliding her hand into Dean's jeans and cupping it over his throbbing erection.

"At the rate you're going, it'll be more like, um, ten. Maybe- _five_," Dean stuttered hoarsely as she pushed the intervening fabric aside and got on her knees on the backseat. She licked the smooth knob cupped in her hands, tasting the saltiness of his arousal, and felt his hands moving through her hair, rubbing the back of her neck.

She wrapped her mouth around him, feeling his thighs tensing under her hands. "God, Al," he gasped. She didn't answer, didn't stop, just held him firmly and moved slowly up and down, circling her tongue around the head every time she pulled back.

He was getting harder and harder by the moment, and she knew he had to be close to the edge. A few slow strokes of her mouth later, and he confirmed it around ragged breaths, "Al, I'm going to- you'd better- stop."

She didn't want to stop. She wanted to _taste_ him, push him over the edge the way he had her, so when he groaned and tightened his fingers on her shoulders, spilling hot liquid over her tongue, it was exactly what she'd craved.

Panting, he pulled her back up, kissing her, practically devouring her mouth. "Thanks," he said, finally breaking away, and she knew that _he_ knew why she'd insisted they pull over and do this. He smirked, and she also knew exactly what he was going to say next. "Just what the doctor ordered," he added.

She laughed and chucked his rumpled t-shirt at him, grinning when it landed across his smugly-grinning face with a soft thump.

House paced back and forth – not limping as badly as before getting shot, but it was definitely getting worse and worse with every passing day - across his living room floor, restless and agitated. His comfortable existence, his sense of _balance_, was completely off. All because of Cameron's disappearing act.

Upon finding Cameron's wrecked apartment, the first thing House had done had been to call Cuddy and explain the situation. Cameron's absence from work, the unlocked front door of her apartment, the mess…

Cuddy had sounded absolutely shocked, and had gotten off the phone immediately with House to call the police. House, glancing around at all the damage, had found himself thinking that maybe they were just blowing things way out of proportion. Maybe Cameron had taken a surprise "sex weekend" somewhere outside Princeton with Mr. Pizza Boy with the Great Taste in Cars, and they'd gotten stuck in traffic on the way home. House had stopped to think darkly that he should've keyed Pizza Boy's car door when he had the chance. In any case, maybe Cameron had just forgotten to lock her place, and therefore it been burglarized and/or vandalized in her absence.

Hell, if a patient could have two different diseases at the same time, why couldn't Cameron's disappearance, and the damage to her place, be separate events?

But things had gone rapidly downhill after that. Just thinking about it now made House's thigh ache like a sonofabitch, despite the recent improvement the ketamine treatments had brought.

After Cuddy had called the cops, they'd wanted him to come down and give a statement, so he'd been forced to spend a few hours waiting in a noisy, smelly police station. He'd tried to distract himself by focusing on their current case, calling Foreman and Chase every ten minutes and generally irritating the Hell out of them, but it didn't help.

He found himself worrying about Cameron, and it annoyed him. He also found himself wondering if she'd turned down his recent offer of a date, several weeks back, because she'd already been involved with Pizza Boy by then, and that annoyed him even more, for some reason. Except, why should he care? He was here to help file a Missing Persons report – _maybe_ – that would probably turn out to be exactly what he'd thought: Cameron taking a moment to be irresponsible, for once. With negative consequences, if you considered the damage to her place.

Then again, considering the HIV scare she'd had, and the meth-induced sex with Chase that had followed, House figured she should've learned better by now.

Not that he was one to talk, but _still_.

There was no point worrying anyways, he'd told himself over and over. Either she was in trouble, or she wasn't. There was nothing he could do either way. Just like during her HIV scare.

Still, it had disturbed him that he seemed to be jealous of what's-his-name. Pizza Boy. House had no reason to be jealous of Cameron, he repeated to himself multiple times. She was far too young and too soft and too _nice_ to be 'Mrs. Greg House'. He'd established that long ago. OK, so he'd been wrong about the 'needing damaged men part'…unless, of course, Pizza Boy had some interesting neuroses that House didn't know about (and House's money was on 'yes').

His mood hadn't improved, either, when Cuddy had shown up at the station to give him 'moral support'. She was probably there to make sure House didn't try to sneak out of his civic duties the way he always did Clinic duties. Or maybe she had joined him just so she could feel like she was doing _something_. Either way, Cuddy's nervous hand-wringing hadn't helped. Even snarking loudly at her cleavage in front of the cops hadn't relieved House's mood.

He hadn't known then that things were about to get even _worse_, however. When he'd finally had the chance to give his statement, that's when things went really pear-shaped.

He'd been ushered into a room (at least they asked Cuddy to stay behind, thank God for small mercies) with three cops. Two of them introduced themselves as Spencer and Franks, but the third was obviously the big cheese in the room, introducing himself as Special Agent Victor Henrickson. A black dude, House noted; Foreman would be proud one of his homies was doing so well for himself.

House didn't need to be a master of observation to see the tension between the Special Agent and the other two cops. Probably the fact Henrickson was FBI, and apparently taking over their case, had something to do with it.

That's when he really knew things were _bad_.

"Dr. House, do you recognize this man?" Henrickson had slapped a pencil sketch on the table in front of him. Oh yes, House recognized this fellow.

"Yeah, that's Dr. Cameron's boyfriend. What's-his-name." For once, House's disinterest in people's names had come back to haunt him.

"Dean Steele?" the woman cop had prompted.

House had shrugged in response. "Maybe. _I'm_ not the one dating him, why should I care what his name is?" House couldn't help mouthing off. It was what he did. Especially when he was off-balance.

"Dr. House," Henrickson had snapped. "I don't think you realize the gravity of the situation." He'd put more photos down on the table in front of House. What was in the photos had made House's blood immediately run cold.

"Dean Winchester is a serial killer," Henrickson had said, putting down photo after photo.

The other male cop – Franks? Spencer? House didn't remember now – had turned and glared at the FBI man. "And a cop killer. This is _our _case."

Henrickson had glared back at the man, while House looked at the photos of bloodied, beaten, mutilated women and tried not to lose his lunch. His thigh had started hurting right that moment, sharp throbs to counter the headache suddenly building behind his eyes, and he'd tried to reach for his Vicodin bottle. Before remembering he no longer had any. He'd begun surreptitiously massaging his thigh instead.

"It's the FBI's case now," Henrickson had said. "The only reason you're still here is because I like to work with local authorities whenever possible. But this is _my _show, I can take this completely away from you whenever I deem it necessary." Speech finished, the agent had turned back to House.

"Dr. House, Dean Winchester – that's his real name - is a monster. He's killed multiple women. Committed other abhorrent acts, like grave desecration. Hell, he even faked his own death, to throw the authorities off the trail." He'd sat on the table next to House, looking down at him, and House had shifted uncomfortably.

"He's dangerous, he's smart, and he's been expertly trained by a father who was formerly in the Marines. And now his 'girlfriend' – your fellow – is missing. I saw her place. It's not his usual M.O., no, but he's not your typical serial. Except for the crazy part."

House's throat had gone dry. He'd shoved the photos away from him, violently enough that half of them fell off the table. "Then why aren't you doing your job, instead of sitting here telling me how wonderfully crazy he – allegedly – is?" House had shot back hoarsely.

Henrickson had gotten up off the table, pacing back and forth. "I'm trying to, Dr. House. But in order to increase our chances of stopping him, I need to know _everything_ you can tell me. About him. And about Dr. Cameron. The more I know, the more likely I catch this sick fuck and put him away. Maybe I even find him in time to save your employee, though to be honest, it doesn't look good."

House hadn't even realized at first that he was shaking his head numbly. No, this was all wrong. Weird medical shit? Yes, that happened to him and his fellows, on a daily basis. But serial killers kidnapping one of his fellows? "Look, I'm sure this is all a big misunderstanding. Cameron and her man went off on a weekend trip or something, and while she was gone some teenagers broke in and trashed her place. That's a much more logical explanation."

"Dr. House," the woman had said, her voice tight and angry, "There's more." She'd ignored the quelling look from the FBI agent. "We had an officer – a _friend_ of ours – surveilling Dr. Cameron's place. Just to inform us if and when Winchester came back to visit her."

"He's dead," the male cop had jumped in, his voice hard. "Winchester slit his throat and dumped him in some bushes. And now your fellow is missing and her apartment's been wrecked. So what other logical explanation is there?"

Nausea had roiled in House's belly, and he'd rubbed his thigh harder. Christ, this was really happening.

He'd wondered suddenly if this was somehow his fault. If he'd actually allowed a relationship to develop between them, maybe this would have protected Cameron somehow. Maybe she'd be alive- Better not to think that. He'd reminded himself there were a lot of symptoms – evidence – but no firm diagnosis. He'd closed his eyes, breathing deeply, forcing himself to calm down. "What do you want to know?" he'd asked.

Now, back in the present, House continued to pace his living room. On the advice of the cops, he and Cuddy were keeping things quiet. There was no sense panicking the team, especially since the cops thought there was a good chance Winchester was still in the area, and putting the whole hospital on high alert might warn him off.

It made things much more difficult for House, though. He couldn't confide in Wilson, because he knew the hospital grapevine would be abuzz within minutes. Same with his team. There was only Cuddy to commiserate with, and her agitation wasn't helping him at all.

Instead, he'd done his best to focus on the current case, although it proved near impossible. Cameron could be suffering somewhere, or even already dead.

And he felt guilty.

So, with no one to help ease the burden, he'd snuck out early from Clinic duty, so he could come home and drown his fears and his worsening pain in Vicodin and alcohol.

Suddenly the phone rang, almost startling him into dropping his nearly-full glass of scotch.

Cameron's voice on his answering machine seared through his mental haze like a knife. She didn't sound terrified, or in pain. She sounded like _her_, worried about what he might think of her.

Paradoxically, it made him angry. The thought that she'd put him through all this for nothing, made any relief he might have felt turn to instant ire. He snatched up the phone. "So _nice _of you to finally remember you have a paying job," he said to her, as harshly as he could.

"I was in _trouble_, House," she said back just as sharply.

_Was_ in trouble? Already, he was thinking that the FBI agent and his cop cronies were the psychos in this scenario, not Dean what's-his-name…Winchester. Allison Cameron didn't have the strength and cunning to escape from the kind of person Henrickson had described. Add to that the fact Cameron didn't seem upset – or not in a I've-been-kidnapped-he's-going-to-kill-me-HELP-me-upset kind of way – and wasn't listing off ransom demands from her captor, and what you had here was a bunch of misled cops looking for a scapegoat.

But it made House feel still more angry. How dare she put him through all this? "I don't care," he lied. "I don't even care that you decided to go all urban-demo décor at your place-"

"What?" Cameron seemed surprised, but House, fueled by alcohol and rage, kept on going.

"I just want to know when you're going to be back here doing your job." I want things back to _normal_, in other words. He'd even put up with her crushing on him again, if it got things back into balance.

But there was only a pause, and then she said reluctantly, "Not for a little while longer. Another week, most likely. Things aren't totally dealt with-"

Hell, no. He didn't want to deal with this drama any more. He just wanted it over, her and Chase and Foreman hanging on his every diagnosis and scurrying to do his bidding. That was the way things were supposed to be. He was supposed to be at home brooding over his leg and the things Stacy's duplicity had caused him, not the fact Cameron might be dead and he might somehow have contributed to that by driving her away and into the arms of the very man who might have ultimately taken her life.

"What the Hell is going on, Cameron? Where the Hell are you?" he practically yelled into the phone.

"I- I can't tell you that. Not yet," she stammered.

House practically snarled into the phone. He'd had enough of these 'symptoms', he wanted his fucking diagnosis. Wanted some _answers_. "What? Did that fucking pizza boy kidnap you?" It was out before he'd realized what he'd said.

"No. This has nothing to do with him," Cameron said, her voice steady and firm. "Look, House, all I can tell you is that I'm safe. I was in serious trouble, and now I'm safe. But I can't come back yet."

Relief flooded him. Later on, he'd wonder if she was lying. If Winchester was standing over her with a gun to her head. Or a knife to her throat. But right now, he was convinced that if he just waited it out, eventually things would come back to normal.

Although he still wanted his answers, damn it. "What the fuck does that _mean_, Cameron?"

"I can't go into that now, House. I just called so that you-" She stopped, as if she didn't know how to continue.

"You have to do better than that!" House rasped. "I need-" he almost said _you_, but stopped himself just in time. "My immunologist. People are busy dying, and I need my team at full strength to help save them." Yes, that was more acceptable. "And all you can say is 'I can't tell you'?" He was yelling once more, frustrated all over again. He wanted the balance, the status quo back.

"I can't do better than that, House." Her voice was quiet, resigned. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."

"Wait!" House protested, relieved when she didn't hang up. He scrabbled to capitalize on this, do something, anything, to maintain the status quo.

The case. That was the answer. He limped over and grabbed for the file he'd dumped messily on the coffee table two hours ago. "If I can't have my immunologist with me in body, then will you at least do our latest patient a favour and be with me in spirit?"

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" she retorted. She suddenly sounded anxious, but House ignored that and ploughed on.

"You don't want to come back here, and I need an immunologist, stat. Forty-two year-old male, initially admitted to ER complaining of a rash on his chest…." House finished his recitation of the symptoms, then prompted her for a differential.

Minutes later, he hung up the phone, mulling over the possibilities she'd listed. She'd refused to give him a phone number, so he'd settled for encouraging her to give him a call in a few hours, just to see if her diagnostic suggestions would pan out.

Now, his only thought was to call Chase and Foreman and order more tests.

He told himself he'd call the cops later. Laugh in their faces and tell them to go take their scapegoating and crazy desire to make their careers by finding the 'serial of the century' elsewhere. Yeah, it was too bad about the dead cop, but it didn't have to be what they were thinking. Plenty of people were stupid enough to kill cops, they didn't have to be serial killers (or after Allison Cameron) to do that. It was probably some drug dealer or tweaker. Cameron didn't exactly live in the poshest section of the Princeton-Plainsboro region.

He'd call the cops tomorrow, he decided, knocking back the remainder of his scotch in relief. Yes, tomorrow. Right now he had a patient to save, and the clock wasn't ticking any slower.

Allison wasn't all that impressed with the rough backwoods cabin John had apparently chosen as the Winchester staging area, but she reminded herself that this wasn't her party. She decided to do her best to stay out of everyone's way, although she did insist on checking John's head wound again.

Dean and Sam were outside at the moment taking inventory of their weapons, leaving her alone with John. Allison felt that same unease again, that same feeling that John was watching her with animosity in his eyes when her back was turned, but every time she glanced over at him, his expression was bland and neutral.

It bothered her, but she chose to focus on his wound instead. It was seeping a little, but not enough to concern her, so she changed the bandage and then once again ran through the symptom check with him.

"Allison," John asked right out of the blue, when her examination was over. "Do you love Dean?"

The directness of the question threw her. Of course she did – she thought she did – but she hadn't even said as much to Dean yet.

"Um, why do you ask?" she countered, stalling. Hoping Dean or Sam would come back in and rescue her from the awkwardness.

It was also the way John was looking at her. It was distinctly _creepy_. Like he was almost thinking-

John's hand firmly grasped her elbow, drawing her closer before she had a chance to resist. "I've been watching you," he whispered gravelly, close to her cheek, hot breath caressing her skin. "You're too much _woman_ for a boy like him."

Allison didn't need to be a genius like House to diagnose what was going on here. Or what John was suggesting. Her stomach clenched into a tight knot. "Mr. Winchester," she said as steadily as she could, "Please let go of my arm."

He didn't. If anything, his grip tightened, and he leaned in even further, until she could barely feel his lips brushing her ear. "You're a beautiful woman. Intelligent. You need a man, someone who could offer you so much _more_. I could do that for you, Allison."

It didn't make any sense. First he was cold towards her, then he acted as if he despised her, and now _this_? His grip on her arm was tight enough now that she'd have to fight hard to get away if he didn't release her voluntarily.

How could she get out of this?

With relief, she heard Dean's and Sam's voices from just outside the cabin.

Dean pulled the rough cabin door open, blinking a little at the scene in front of him. Allison was backing away from Dad, looking upset, while Dad had this very strange expression on his face. _Satisfaction?_ Dean didn't know, but in an instant, it was gone, and Dad was all business again, coming towards him and Sam and asking about the state of their weapons and ammo.

"_What happened?_" he mouthed at Allison, but she just shook her head.

Something was _wrong_. Dean still didn't know what, exactly, couldn't put his finger on it, but something was off.

On top of everything else that had been troubling Dean, Sammy had been complaining lately about a steadily increasing headache, ever since they'd rescued Allison. Like his visions, Sam had said, but the visions themselves hadn't come. Just the pain.

And Dean still thought that Dad was being…_weird_. It wasn't just the fact that Dad wasn't arguing with Dean the way Dean might have expected, given the current state of affairs. Having Allison with them should've been a big sticking point with Dad, but John hadn't protested at all.

But it was also the way Dad was reacting to Allison. Yes, he'd accepted her presence, but he seemed to be very passive-aggressive about it. A few times, Dean had caught John glaring at Allison. At first, he'd dismissed it as Dad being moody and taking it out on their unwelcome guest, but the more he thought about it, the more it felt off to him. Dad wasn't the _passive_ type. If he was unhappy with the status quo, he'd let you know. Loudly, angrily, and out in the open. More often with Sam, sure, but that was only because Dean usually went along with Dad's wishes. Now that Dean was finally sticking up for what he wanted, shouldn't Dad and he be at each other's throats, instead of Dad glaring daggers at Allison because he didn't want her there?

Not to mention the strangeness of what had just happened between Allison and Dad.

Still, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that something big was wrong. Dean knew it, could feel it in his bones, but he didn't know what it was. He needed time to sit down, figure it out, but he didn't have the luxury. What _was_ it?

He saw Sam wince and rub at his forehead again, and Dean pushed his misgivings aside for the moment and went over to him. "Still bad, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, shaking his head as if that would somehow dislodge the pain. "Fucking codeine is doing _nothing_, dude."

Dean was really starting to worry. Maybe Sammy wasn't cut out for this? He'd never been as into hunting as Dean and Dad were. Maybe, now that the chips were down, Sammy was folding?

"Hang in there, Sammy," Dean said, slapping him on the shoulder. "We'll get the bastard. Soon."

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam groused, rubbing his forehead still. "And stop treating me like I'm some nervous schoolgirl."

"Well, I just thought-" Dean started.

"I _know_ what you thought. This isn't like a stress headache. I'm not scared of going after the Demon. I _told_ you. It's like the visions-" That was when Sam's expression turned worried. "Maybe this has something to do with the Demon? Like, maybe it knows we're here, and it's trying to take me out? Putting out some bad vibes or something?"

Dean didn't like the sound of that, not at all, but he couldn't see anything they could do about it, either. Other than stick to the plan.

He patted the Colt he was still wearing. He'd had it ever since they'd rescued Allison. "If it is the Demon, Sammy – _Sam_ – I've got the cure right here. Three bullets, three chances to-"

That was when it hit him, like a punch to the jaw. Three bullets. That was it. Three chances.

When they could've had four.

He'd used one of those bullets on Meg. Used up one of their precious chances to kill the Demon once and for all.

And Dad had never mentioned it. Not _once_. Heck, he'd never even asked Dean for the gun back.

Suddenly, it all made sense to Dean. Even down to Sam's inexplicable headache.

Sam was watching him, his worry becoming even more apparent. "Dean? What's wrong?" From across the room, Dean saw Allison look over at them, obviously concerned by the tone of Sam's voice.

That was when the lights in the cabin started to flicker, the wind picking up outside and screaming around the corners of the building. Dad strode rapidly over to the window, looking out. "It found us! It's here."

"The Demon?" Sam asked. Dean tightened his grip on the Colt. Watching his father. It was suddenly right down to the wire, just like that, and he knew he had a decision to make. Maybe the most important one of all their lives.

"Sam, lines of salt in front of every window, every door." John ordered.

"Already did it." Sam reminded him.

"Well, check it again, okay?" John insisted, and Sam nodded and left the room. Leaving Dean alone with both Allison and his Dad. Who might not be his Dad.

"Dean, you got the gun?" John was asking.

"Yeah," Dean answered. But he didn't hand it over. He looked over at Allison, who was pale and almost visibly shaking. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. She wasn't supposed to have a front-row seat. Could he get her out of here somehow?

"Give it to me," John was saying, his hand out.

Dean tried stalling. "Dad, maybe we ought to check first what's going on?_ Lots_ of things cause power surges…." He needed more time, damn it. He needed to sit down and think things through, decide if all the clues added up to what he feared.

Dad ignored Dean's insubordination as if it hadn't happened, still looking out the window. "Quickly, Dean. _Hurry_."

Even that was wrong. Dad should've been yelling, demanding the Colt. Getting impatient with Dean and his slow response to orders.

"Son, please," John coaxed, looking back at Dean, a pleading expression on his face.

Dean took a few slow steps back from Dad. Every second that went by, he was more convinced. Dad should be popping him in the jaw and taking the gun. Or at least getting very frustrated with him.

Instead, John looked confused and afraid. "Give me the gun. What are you _doing_, Dean?"

Dean stepped slowly back until he was standing next to Allison. "Dean, what's going on?" she asked him, clearly unsettled.

Dean didn't answer her, just addressed the man in front of them. "You'd be furious."

John was finally starting to look angry. "_What_?"

"That I wasted a bullet. He wouldn't be taking it in stride like this. He'd tear me a new one. This is the most important thing in his life, the most important hunt. Everything he's worked towards, ever since Mom died. I use up one bullet, one of his chances to kill this fucking thing, and he never even brings it up?" Dean raised the Colt and cocked it.

"You're not my dad."

Allison put out a hand, cautiously, but pulled it back before she touched Dean. "Dean, wait, are you sure-?"

"Dean, for God's sake, it's _me_," Dad said. But Dean wasn't buying it.

"I know my dad better than anyone. And you ain't him," he growled, and shot a look at Allison. I know what I'm talking about, that look said.

"What the Hell has gotten into you?" The thing inside his Dad tried again.

Dean chuckled bitterly. "I could ask you the same thing." Except he was pretty sure he already knew. The only real question was whether this was a minor player, or the big badass himself?

Dad – not-Dad's – eyes shifted, and Dean glanced over to see Sam coming up to join them.

"Dean! What the Hell is-" Sam started, eyes wide.

"Your brother's lost his mind," Dad said, sounding desperate.

Dean gritted his teeth and kept a tight bead on his father. "He's not our Dad," he said to his brother.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean almost couldn't get the words out for a moment. As if saying them would somehow make this more real, even more inescapable. But he had to. "He's possessed. I think he's been possessed since we rescued Allison."

"Don't listen to him, Sammy," Dad pleaded.

Sam looked from Dean to Dad and back, looking scared and confused himself. "How do you _know_, Dean?"

"He's _different_," Dean insisted. "He hasn't said word one about me using a bullet back there. Or about having Allison along. That sound like the Dad we know?"

"We don't have time for this," Dad rasped. "Sammy, if we're going to kill this Demon, you have to trust me."

That was when Allison spoke up, sounding timid and afraid. "I don't know if this helps, but while you were both outside just now, he…he…made a pass at me."

Oh God. Dean's gaze flicked over to Sam. No way, Dad would _never_ do anything like that. Ever. If Dean needed further proof…

He could see from Sam's face, that Sam felt exactly the same.

"Sam?" The thing masquerading as their father asked.

"No." Sam said, first weakly, and then with more strength. He walked slowly over until he was standing by Dean's other side.

John looked back and forth between the two of them, ignoring Allison, his eyes starting to tear up. "Fine," he said, shoulders slumping. "If you're both so sure, then do it. Kill me." He looked beseechingly at them for another few heart-freezing seconds, then lowered his head.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dean was sure – _absolutely_ sure – that this wasn't his Dad. But if his Dad was possessed, what could Dean do about it?

He couldn't kill his own father. Not even to free him from possession.

Tears stung Dean's eyes as well, and his grip on the gun faltered. An eternity passed, while the four of them stood frozen, trapped.

Then Dad spoke again, but this time his voice was deeper, raspier…and _amused_. "I thought so," he said with a chuckle.

Dean only got a glimpse of his father's face, the eyes a swirling haze of yellow, before Dean was picked up as if by a giant, invisible hand, and flung against the wall. He felt the Colt jerked out of his grip, even as Sam's yell and Allison's scream of terror ripped into his ears.

Dean tried to push himself out from the wall, to go to Allison, to go to Sam, to go retrieve the precious gun, but he couldn't move. He was pinned to the wall like a butterfly on a pin.

He could do nothing but watch with hate and despair as the thing wearing his Dad like a suit of clothes sauntered over to the Colt and picked it up. "What a pain in the ass this thing's been," it said, still chuckling. Twisting helplessly against the invisible force, Dean stared across the room into Allison's tear-streaked face.

"It's _you_, isn't it?" Sam growled at the Demon.

"Yep, you found me," It drawled, grinning viciously at them, yellow eyes gleaming poisonously. "Lucky, lucky you."

"I'm gonna kill you!" Sam yelled, obviously trying to struggle, but Dean could see it was having no more effect than his own efforts.

"That _would_ be a neat trick, wouldn't it? Just how strong are you, Sammy?" Still grinning, it plunked the Colt down on the rough table. "Here ya go. Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy."

Dean watched, his heart in his throat. Sam was concentrating, but….nothing happened. The Colt didn't even tremble, and the Demon chuckled low again in its throat, like gravel rubbing together. "No? I'm disappointed in you, Sammy."

It strolled over until it was next to Dean, looking out the dirty window. "This is _fun_. I could've killed all three of you a thousand times in the last few days, but this…" It sighed deeply with satisfaction, and Dean felt his hate magnify. "This is worth the wait."

This was the monster that had murdered Mom, and Sam's girlfriend, and destroyed untold numbers of other families. And now it had them. Dean couldn't believe this was happening, that it was going down like this. Couldn't believe that he could do nothing to stop it, change it.

The Demon sidled closer, and Dean tried not to flinch. "Your daddy? He's in here with me, trapped inside his own meat suit." It grinned even wider, a mockery of Dad's smile. "He says "hi", by the way. He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood."

Mouth dry, Dean didn't have a comeback for that.

That's when the Demon looked across the room. Straight at Allison.

"Hmmm," it mused, eyes alight with glee. "Maybe I'll let him _taste_ your girlfriend, first, so to speak. Twenty-two years is a long time to be without any tail. You don't mind _sharing_ her, do you, Dean-O?"

"Leave her alone," Dean demanded, but the Demon was already striding leisurely over to stand in front of a very frightened-looking Allison. Like it had all the time in the world.

It did.

"Hey, baby," it said to her, in a voice that made Dean's flesh crawl. "How about it? A little fun before you die?" It put out one of his father's hands, sliding it over Allison's bruised cheek.

Gasping, Allison twisted her head away from its touch. "Leave her alone!" Dean said more forcefully.

Laughing, it grabbed Allison by the chin and forced her head back, crushing John's lips down on hers, shoving its tongue inside her. Allison couldn't move, couldn't fight back, but Dean saw her hands clench into fists.

Dean fought harder than before, trying to get free, but it was useless. Desperate, he looked over at Sam, but there was no help there. Sam was fighting as hard as Dean, eyes locked to the Colt, but it was useless.

"Let her GO!" Dean yelled, so loud something in his throat nearly gave way. Across the room, the Demon released Allison's mouth, its hand still tight around her chin. It looked over at Dean, licking its lips slowly. "So sweet and tasty," it purred lasciviously, while Allison made a small whimpering noise, her eyes focused pleadingly on Dean.

"Take me instead," Dean gasped. "Let Sam, Dad and Allison go, and take me." Anything. Anything to save them.

Allison's eyes widened. "No, Dean!" Sam just watched, mouth open.

The Demon narrowed Dad's eyes, then released Allison, its expression thoughtful. It left her with one parting shot – Dean saw its hand brush down her breast and over her nipple as it dropped its hand from her, making her shudder – but at least it seemed to be leaving her alone. For now. "That's a good point, Dean-O. I _should_." It strode back over to stand in front of him, and Dean hid his sigh of relief that it wasn't at Allison anymore.

"I should," it repeated, standing in front of him, glaring into his eyes with its ugly yellow orbs. "You killed my daughter. Far as I'm concerned? This? Is _justice_."

"Meg?" Dean asked, guessing.

"Yeah," it confirmed, shifting even closer, hot breath falling on Dean's face. "I saw you shoot her. Saw you send my daughter to oblivion."

"You were there?" Dean asked, not that he really cared. He was stalling again, trying to buy them more time. For what, he didn't know, but if they were going to do anything at all, they needed that.

"Yeah. I was watching, Dean. _Waiting_. How do you think I got into your Dad? When I saw my children weren't handling you three as easily as I thought, I waited til your Dad was down, and took the opportunity. Didn't think you'd actually waste one of your precious bullets that way, on anyone other than me. Since you _did_, and I'm not much for getting sent to oblivion, myself, playing Daddy seemed the best way to go. And so, here we are."

"_Children_? You?" Dean snorted. "You've got to be kiddin' me." Buy more time, buy more time.

"What?" It rasped. "You and your kind are the only ones allowed to have a family? You killed my favourite daughter. How would you feel if I killed your family?"

Dean said nothing, just met the Demon's gaze with his own hate and rage.

It smiled, the self-satisfied expression back on its face. "Oh, wait, that's _right_. I forgot. I did." It leered at him. "Still, two wrongs, don't make a right. Won't stop me from taking even _more_ of your family. John lost sweet Mary, Sammy lost Jess, but I haven't taken any of _your_ whores."

"You son of a bitch," Dean spat. "You-"

"I want to know why," Sam interrupted, from his own imprisonment. "Why'd you do it?"

It turned slowly, almost teasingly, towards Sam. "You mean, why'd I kill your Mommy? Your pretty little Jessica?"

"Yeah," Sam challenged.

Sneering back at Dean, the Demon strode over to stand in front of Sam. "You never told Dean-O, did you? That you were going to ask sweet Jessica to marry you? That you'd gone ring shopping three days before I sliced, diced, and flambéed her on your ceiling?" It stopped, laughing coldly up at Sam. "You wanna know _why_? Because they got in the way."

Dean took the opportunity to keep on fighting, doing his best to find a weakness in the force paralyzing him, trying to capitalize on the Demon's divided attention, but still to no effect.

What could they do? How long could they keep trading its attention back and forth between the two of them like this?

"In the way of what?" Sam demanded angrily.

"My plans for you, of course, Sammy," It said, a note in its voice that was almost _seductive_. "You….and all the children like you."

Dean shook his head – as much as he could, anyways – suddenly deciding they couldn't keep doing this. The Demon was apparently strong enough to keep the three of them effortlessly pinned for as long as it wanted. Dean had to take a chance. Draw more of the thing's attention, its ire, and hope that its control over Sam – or Allison, for that matter – would slip.

Maybe what had happened before with Max would happen again. Maybe the trauma of seeing Dean in danger would spur Sam's fledgling telekinesis back into the open.

It was the only chance Dean thought they had.

"Listen," Dean interrupted. "You mind just gettin' this over with? 'Cause I really can't stand the monologuing." He heard Allison gasp in dismay. "Dean, what are you-" she whispered, shocked, but Dean avoided looking at her. He kept his eyes on the Demon, challenging it.

Come and get me, you bastard.

Taking the bait, it strolled back over to stand nose-to-nose with Dean. "Funny, Dean-O. But wait, that's all part of your M.O., isn't it? Use humour to mask all that nasty pain. Mask the _truth_."

Dean snorted. "Oh yeah? What's that?" C'mon, c'mon Sammy. _Do _something.

It grinned at him sadistically. "You fight and you fight for this family, but the truth? They don't _need_ you. Not like you need them." It motioned with its head in the direction of his brother. "Sam? He's clearly John's favourite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's _ever_ shown you. And Allison?" It grinned even more widely. "You think she's in love with you? Nah. She loves her boss. But her boss is too much of a wimp to take advantage of her willingness to spread those white thighs for him, so she settled for you instead. Stupid, 'lead-me-around-by-my-cock' Dean Winchester. Pathetic, isn't it? That you want so much to _belong_ to someone, anyone? Whether it's Allison, Daddy, or even Sammy. Anyone will do."

Dean's rage built, higher and higher, and he let it. There was nothing else he could do, except distract the thing, draw its fire, keep its attention on him and away from Allison and Sam. Nothing but hope that Sam's telekinetic ability came back, that it proved strong enough to break free and shoot the thing.

Without killing Dad in the process.

"Yeah, I bet you're real proud of your kids, too, huh? Oh, wait, I forgot. I wasted your 'favourite' one. Too bad," he smiled at the Demon, hiding his fear behind the hate and rage. You hurt _me_, and you leave them alone, he dared it, silently.

The Demon said nothing, just stared at him for another eternity. Then it stepped slowly back, lowering its head. When it looked up again a moment later, there were red lights curling far back in the depths of those damned eyes.

Sudden pain _tore_ through Dean, worse than any wound he'd ever felt before. Something was inside him, ripping his chest slowly open, and he screamed in agony.

The screams of Allison and Sam seemed to come from somewhere in the far distance, his own sounds of pain ringing in his ears. Those red-yellow eyes swam in front of him, mocking through the pain-haze. "Dad! Dad, stop it! Don't you let it kill me!" Reduced by pain to pleading with his Dad.

But he only felt another series of cuts start, only tasted blood in his mouth. Sammy, Daddy-

It was too strong. It was killing him, and he knew he was going to die without being able to save any of them. He made one last-ditch effort through the pain and blood. "Dad, please," he begged, broken, feeling tears sliding down his cheeks.

The blackness was already sucking him down, deep and fast. Still, even as he lost consciousness, Dean thought he heard Dad's voice – _Dad_'s voice – saying "Stop."

Allison had thought getting captured and held prisoner by Meg and her friends had been the most frightening experience in her life, second only to her HIV scare.

She'd been wrong.

This was far worse. Pinned to the wall by an invisible force, listening to Dean's father – no, it wasn't his father – tormenting Dean and Sam. Unable to do anything as it _touched_ her, kissed her.

But hearing Dean's screams was the worst thing of all. She was a doctor, she'd heard a lot of screams of pain over the years.

But this was another thing entirely-

"Stop it! Leave him alone!" she shrieked. She couldn't see what that monster was doing to Dean, and she didn't care, even if it turned its attention back onto her. Even if it _hurt_ her instead. She was willing to bear that, for Dean.

"Dean! Dad! _No_!" Sam was yelling.

All of a sudden, through the echoes of Dean's last pained cry, she heard John say in a much lower, tear-filled voice, "Stop."

"Stop it," John said again, each word dripping with despair, and Allison felt the implacable force holding her to the wall first weaken, and then dissipate altogether.

She slid off the wall and landed on her knees, scrambling to get up. She had to do something, but what?

But Sam was already doing something. He was standing beside the table, the Colt now in hand.

Just for a moment, John's eyes were dark, haunted, _human_. Then the yellow fire she'd seen burning in them, all too up close and personal when it had kissed her, returned. It grinned at both of them, taunting them. "You kill me, Sammy-boy, you kill Daddy."

Paralyzed, Allison watched the drama unfold. The same impasse as before, when Dean had held the gun, except now Dean was dying. Maybe already dead.

"I know," Sam said unsteadily. Then there was only the report of the bullet, deafening in the small room.

Allison kept watching, there was nothing else she could do, and immediately realized that Sam had hit John in the leg. Little silver-blue bolts of electricity shot from the wound, and then John slumped to the floor.

No, the Colt really wasn't a normal gun.

Then Dean fell to the floor with a bone-wrenching thump, waking up and wheezing, and Allison forgot everything in her rush to get to his side.

"Dean?" she asked, struggling to push his hands aside as she tried to see how bad it was. She was dimly aware of Sam kneeling next to her.

"Dean? Oh God," Sam said, sucking in a shocked breath as Allison's hands, covered with gore already, peeled back the torn folds of Dean's t-shirt.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Allison said tightly, trying to hold on to control of herself. Seeking refuge in the part of herself that was a doctor, pushing the part that was the frantic 'girlfriend' aside. "We have to get him to a hospital."

"Where's Dad?" Dean asked weakly, gaze moving slowly between her and Sam.

"He's right here," Sam said, glancing behind him. Allison followed his gaze. John was just lying there, unmoving. Maybe it _was_ over. "He's right here, Dean."

"Go and check on him," Dean insisted, blood leaking heavily from the corner of his mouth. "Go check-"

"OK, OK, he's doing it, just calm _down_, Dean," Allison said adamantly. Sam got up and she heard the slow shuffling of his hesitant footsteps. But she didn't look around. She was too busy tearing up Dean's denim shirt, trying to gather sufficient cloth to press against the worst of the wounds to slow the bleeding.

"Dad?" She heard Sam ask. If John didn't wake up soon, she was going to have to get Sam to drag both Dean and John out to the Impala so they could get everyone to a hospital. Hell, she'd drag them herself if she had to. Dean's physical injuries were way beyond her expertise.

"Sammy!" John suddenly yelled, and despite herself, Allison turned to watch over her shoulder, trying to keep the pressure on Dean's wounds at the same time.

"It's still alive," John said, low and urgent. "It's still inside me, I can feel it. You've got to shoot me, Sam. Shoot me. Shoot me in the heart! Now, son!"

Allison watched in disbelief as Sam raised the gun and cocked it. No, not _again_.

"Sam," Dean rasped, and Allison turned back towards him, a spectator in a macabre tennis match between the two traumatic events unfolding on either side of her.

"Sam, don't you do it. Don't you do it." Dean persisted, coughing more blood.

Allison opened her mouth, but nothing came out. What could she say at a time like this? Yes, shoot him, Sam. Let's end this for everyone. No, Sam, don't shoot your own father, are you _crazy_?

"You've got to hurry," John was insisting, desperation in every word. "Can't hold onto it much longer. Shoot me, Sammy! Shoot me!"

A long pause, but no gunshot, and Allison was inexorably drawn to look over at Sam and his father again. John lying on the ground, struggling, frantic, and Sam standing over him with the gun, hands starting to shake from the mental strain.

"Son, I'm begging you! We can end this here and now! Sammy!" John pleaded.

But again, Dean's broken whisper slipped past Allison. "Sam, don't."

"You do this! Sam!" Suddenly, John's head was flung back, and he screamed. Black smoke, thicker than any smoke Allison had ever seen - as black as Meg's eyes had turned back in Allison's apartment - boiled out of John's mouth. It collected in the air above him, while the rest of them stood rooted in place, watching helplessly. Then it flowed to the floor, ran through the floorboards like water, and was gone.

John gave Sam a look that made Allison's blood run cold – anger, disappointment, desperation – and then let his head fall back on the floor with a thump, breathing heavily, defeated.

Allison couldn't see Sam's face but the slump of his shoulders, and the way the arm holding the Colt drooped, told her all she needed to know. She turned back to Dean, and he was still with them, looking up into her face sadly. "'M sorry, Al," he slurred, bloody spittle flecking his lips. "Didn't want things t'go like-"

"_Fuck_ that, Dean Winchester," she answered, angry now herself. "You're _not_ dying on me, you hear me? Sam!" She was so _not_ going to let Dean bleed out while the Winchesters worked out their family problems.

"Sam!" she demanded again, in a commanding voice none of her diagnostic team members – especially House – would have recognized.

He appeared beside her, his cheeks wet, but Allison didn't have time for this. Even though she knew her own eyes were just as damp. They could mourn later, damn it, if it came to that. "What should we-" Sam started.

She cut him off. "We're taking Dean and your father to the hospital. _Now_."

Sam started to move to obey her, but Dean protested weakly. "Can't, they'll be- waiting for us. Could be anywhere, _in_ any- one." More blood leaked thinly from his mouth.

"That's a chance I'm willing to take. Now shut _up_ and save your strength, Dean. _Move_ it, Sam." Allison ordered.

She wasn't going to let anything stop her from saving the man she loved. Dean had risked everything to save her, had even been willing to sacrifice himself to the Demon for her, and she was not going to balk at doing the same, now that the tables were turned.

No matter what she had to do, or who or what she had to fight.


	6. Chapter 6: A Snowball's Chance in Hell

**A Welcome Distraction: A Snowball's Chance in Hell**

**Author: starhawk2005**

**Dean is hurt, and they have to get him to a hospital, despite the risk of attack along the way. And there's still the small matter of the YED, about to attack the family in Salvation.**

**Disclaimer: So not mine. John would still be alive on this show if I owned it and him. *weeps*  
Author Note: Adding two new canon characters in here: James Wilson and Victor Henrickson.**

Allison tried to maintain pressure on the worst of Dean's wounds, as she listened to the scraping sounds of Sam helping his father to his feet, and then dragging him out the door to the waiting Impala.

"Al," Dean protested weakly, "'S a bad idea." A bubble of blood popped at the corner of his mouth.

"How many times do I have to _tell_ you, Dean?" she snapped, holding onto her fragile self-control with both hands. "Shut UP!"

There was the sound of car doors slamming outside, and then Sam was back. "Allison, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, can't you-"

"No, I can't," she snarled, anticipating his question. "I'm not an intensivist, I can't treat him myself. Let alone in a cabin in the middle of the _fucking_ woods." – how House's jaw would _drop_ – "We need to get him to a hospital. And the longer we sit here and debate it, the less time we have to-" She bit off the words, staring down at her bloodied hands where they held the torn strips of Dean's shirt against his chest wounds. Who would've thought she'd ever wish so hard to have Chase here? He'd know what to do.

"But th'could be wai-_waiting_ for us," Dean reminded them, wheezing. "Hit 's while we're down. If w'stay here, wit' th' salt lines, we stay-" He took a laboured breath. "-_safe_."

"I don't care," Allison insisted. "Sam, take your brother out to the car. Now!" To her relief, Sam only nodded and helped her get Dean to his feet. Smart man.

John was already riding shotgun, hand pressed to the messy bullet wound in his thigh, his features strained, but Allison didn't waste any time checking how he was doing. She had to keep pressure on Dean's wounds. That was the only job that mattered right now. She fidgeted impatiently while Sam maneuvered Dean into the back seat as quickly and carefully as possible, and then she climbed in beside her boyfriend.

Sam slid behind the wheel. "OK, the nearest hospital is only twenty minutes or so away. Hang _on_, Dean." He started the engine with a roar.

But he didn't put the car in gear. Allison glared over at him from the back seat, ready to start yelling any second, but Sam was hunched over the wheel, both hands pressed to his temples. Groaning.

"Sammy?" John asked. "_Sam_?" He sounded worried, concerned, and some of Allison's resentment at the man vanished.

Sam suddenly came out of it, shaking his head. "Dammit, they're waiting for us."

"What are you talking about?" Allison and John asked at the same time.

"I _saw_ it. There's a semi about ten minutes' drive from here, just idling by the side of the road. With a guy with black eyes sitting in the cab. It's got to be the Demon, or one of its friends. Waiting for us."

The three of them sat there looking at each other – Dean was too out of it to register what was going on – for several long moments. What did they do now?

John broke the silence first. "Wait, what do you mean you '_saw_' it?"

"I get visions sometimes," Sam explained quickly. "Seems to happen whenever we get near something involving the Demon."

This was old news to Allison. Dean had explained it to her in the car after her rescue from Meg and her friends. Apparently John Winchester hadn't gotten the memo yet.

"And you think it's going to happen to us because…?" John asked.

"Because these things nearly always happen exactly the way I see them," Sam replied, worry etched into his face.

"Trus' him, Dad," Dean whispered from the back seat, still awake and with them after all. "If h'saw it, it'll happ'n."

John glared at his younger son. "And you were going to tell me about this, when?"

Sam glared back, hands tight around the Impala's steering wheel. "How were we supposed to know-"

Allison had enough. "Do you _want_ Dean to bleed out, you idiots?" Startled, they both looked back at her, then guiltily at Dean lying next to her.

Yeah, House would've been _very _proud.

"You're right," John said. "I'm sorry."

Allison was out of her element, yes, but you didn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what came next. Before they could waste more time, she rambled on: "We've got a car full of weapons, don't we?"

"Well, sure-" Sam answered.

"Then let's _use_ them. I'm no hunter, but even I know a semi isn't much good when you shoot out its tires."

She had the full attention of all three of them, now. "'S my girl," Dean rasped, actually smirking a little under the blood.

"'Best idea I can think of," John concurred. "Sammy, pop the trunk and grab as many of the big guns as you can? I'll be too slow with my damned leg."

It felt like Sam took an eternity, and Allison had to fight not to scream at him and John in sheer frustration and fear, but Dean was awake and gripping her hand weakly with cold fingers, and she wasn't going to lose it, not when she knew he needed her to stay calm.

Finally Sam seat-dropped back into the front seat, shoving the armful of weapons and ammo boxes at John, and putting the car in gear. "You know the way?" John asked him.

"Yeah," Sam said.

"OK. You drive, I'll load the weapons."

Allison turned towards Dean, putting all her attention back into keeping as much blood inside him as she could.

Until John said her name. "Allison."

She half-turned towards him, expecting him to apologize, or perhaps to thank her.

Instead, he asked: "Know how to use a gun?"

"No, I've never even held one in my entire life."

He nodded slowly. "You've got ten minutes to learn."

"Are we getting close?" John asked Sam, tension rising in his voice.

"I think so," Sam answered.

"When you think we're almost there, turn off the headlights and gun the engine."

Sam nodded, hands white-knuckled around the wheel. "Yes, sir." For once, there was no sarcasm in his voice. They were all in this together.

This was small comfort to Allison where she sat in the back, though. Holding a weapon was entirely foreign to her, yet here she was, a gun cold and heavy in her hands.

But all it took was a glance over at Dean, his head lolling bonelessly on the seat as he struggled to stay conscious, to remind her that saving him was more important than her own discomfort and unease with weapons.

"Left or right?" John was asking Sam, and Allison forced herself to focus.

"I saw it hit us on the passenger side."

"OK," John nodded. "Allison," he said, half-turning to face her. "Get ready. If it's there, it's going to be coming up on our right."

Hands shaking, Allison rolled down the window and held the gun the way John had demonstrated to her, bracing her hands as well as she could on the jouncing windowsill. Nothing but rushing blackness outside, trees and empty fields and cold wind, and she shivered. The bloodstains on her hands looked almost black in the moonlight light, and she shivered again.

Maybe Sam's vision had been wrong? Maybe there was no semi?

Just as that thought entered her mind, Sam turned off the Impala's headlights, and the car jolted forward with a roar as he put the pedal right to the floor.

Allison gritted her teeth and fought to maintain her position. More trees, more fields, more nothing….

A sudden loud screech of tires, and there it was. A big, hulking mass of metal, bearing down on them. Gunshots sounded close to her ear; John was already firing at the truck. Clumsily, she tried to copy him, but the lessons he had versed her in mere moments ago were gone. She was a rabbit, caught in the semi's headlights, her fingers frozen on the trigger of her gun.

She wasn't even able to _breathe_. Not until the truck narrowly missed them, ploughing into the road behind their rear bumper by what was surely no more than a yard or two.

"Time to pretend you're in NASCAR, Sam," John ordered, and Sam snapped the headlights back on, pedal still flat to the floor.

Behind them, the truck was swinging back onto the road. Coming after them. Allison felt panic trying to claw at her.

"I'm so sorry, John, I-" She started to say.

John's voice was loud, in order to be heard over the roar of the Impala's engine, but somehow still calm. He was in his element. "Don't apologize, Allison. Just take the safety off."

Allison stared down at the gun in her hands. Stupid!

But John was continuing, as if her rookie mistake had never happened. "We're gonna need to take the tires out, like you suggested. I'm going to lean out my window on this side, and I want you to try to switch places with Dean and lean out the window on his side, so there's no chance I'll hit you by accident. And don't take the safety off until you get in position, OK?"

"OK," she said shakily. "Dean, I'm going to move you over a little." He didn't respond for a moment, his eyes closed and his body slumped against the seat, and for one moment of absolute terror she thought they were too late, that he'd died while they were busy trying to bypass the trap that had been laid for them. But his eyes fluttered open, first unfocused and then sharpening, looking up at her with the gun held awkwardly in her hands.

"'Kay," he slurred, pushing weakly with his left arm, trying to help her. "Jus' don't shoot me, 'kay?" A ghost of a smile on his face, even through the blood, and as she did her best to brush past without jostling him too much, his hand briefly caught at her forearm and squeezed gently. His hand was ice cold, and his grip was weak, but she felt herself draw strength from the contact.

Grimly determined, she lowered the window and stuck her head and arms through, continuing to lean out until she could aim her gun at the truck pursuing them.

John was already firing, she could see bullet holes appearing in the radiator, and also striking the bumper on John's side of the truck. But he hadn't hit the tires yet, and the truck kept on coming.

She squeezed off a few shots, but missed the truck entirely. Or so she thought. It was dark, and hard to see.

More gunshots roared from the Impala's opposite side, a few more of John's bullets striking the oncoming semi. One even shattered the truck's windshield, but the demon-possessed driver didn't even flinch, as far as Allison could tell.

Was it the Demon itself pursuing them? That thought alone was enough to steady her hands around the gun.

She'd die before she let it touch her again.

She fired the gun until it was empty, finally hitting the truck with the last few shots, but still missing the damned tires. She pulled herself back into the car. "I'm out!" Allison shouted desperately.

But John wasn't done. Still leaning out his window, he squeezed off a few final shots, and then she heard it – the sound of a blowout, and skidding behind them. She looked through the rear window, watching the truck swerve off the road and crash into a tree.

John slid back into the car. "I think the Demon won't be following us any more, at least not _that_ way." He dropped into his seat and started to reload the gun. "Not bad for your first try, Allison," he complimented her.

Annoyed at herself, she put the safety back on and passed the gun forward to John for reloading. "You'd think I have no notion of how to aim," she said with disgust. "Hard to believe I'm capable of inserting catheters into patients…"

"It's not easy firing at a moving target in the dark, let alone inside a moving car," he said. "Cut yourself some slack. Or better yet, do what you're good at and make sure Dean's OK."

That was definitely something she _could_ do. Dean's eyes were closed again, and his pulse was very weak, but it was still there. "Not far now, Dean," she whispered in his ear, trying to encourage him. She heard John asking Sam for the Colt, just in case the Demon tried to come at them again in some other form.

But there were no other reprisals. Soon the hospital loomed in front of them, and it was time to move to the second phase of the plan.

They made sure to show up separately and to be admitted under false names, to help throw off anyone - or any_thing_ - that might be looking for them. It started with Allison dropping Sam and John off half a block away. Sam would bring John to the ER and give them some story about him accidentally shooting himself (John had chuckled at the absurdity of that).

Allison's entrance had been much more dramatic. She'd parked the Impala right in the ambulance reception area and burst into the ER, calling for help. The cover story for Dean's injuries was that she'd found him bleeding and unconscious by the side of the road, and since her cell phone hadn't been working, she'd decided it was less risky to bring him in herself than to try to find help nearby while he potentially bled out.

The ER staff had looked at her strangely, especially at her still-bruised cheek and the bandages on her throat, courtesy of Meg. But apparently her credentials as a New Jersey doctor (on vacation in Salvation visiting family, she'd told them) carried enough weight.

They'd taken Dean into surgery, leaving her nothing to do but sit in the waiting room wringing her hands. She'd cleaned them as soon as they'd taken Dean to the OR, but the bloodstains still marred her clothing. The wait was torturous, and she couldn't help the tiny, selfish wish that none of this had ever happened. That instead she would've been back in Princeton, stuck in PPTH overnight after drawing the short straw, running endless tests and having to withstand House's smug insults the next day.

She felt marginally better when Sam suddenly appeared and sat down next to her. "How's Dean?" he asked quietly.

"Surgery," she muttered. "I haven't heard anything else. John?"

Sam nodded. "Also in surgery. They've got to pull the Colt's bullet out of his leg." His brow suddenly scrunched. "Oh crap, I hope the bullet doesn't look all that special, or Dad's going to have some explaining to do."

Allison nodded but couldn't really bring herself to care. She was bone-weary and bloodied and scared, and Dean…who knew if Dean was even going to _make_ it?

Horrified, she felt tears start to roll down her cheeks. Then she wondered why she was so angry at herself for crying. Dean was her boyfriend, not just any patient.

And it wasn't like House was around to see and mock her for it.

"It's OK, Allison," Sam said, putting his arms awkwardly around her and guiding her head onto his shoulder. "Dean's _tough_. I've seen him take some pretty bad hits before, and he always came out smiling. This time won't be any different."

She nodded, but she wasn't convinced.

Finally, after what felt like ten lifetimes of waiting, the doctor came out of surgery and told her they'd done all they could, that Dean was in the recovery room and would soon be moved into the ICU. They would just have to wait and see if he'd pull through or not.

Numbed, Allison waited to wake up from the nightmare. Unfortunately, it showed no sign of ending.

She installed herself in the ICU, sitting on a hard chair next to Dean's bed. Sam edged into the room behind her, but Allison only had eyes for Dean. He just lay there, lashes dark against his pale cheeks, and she fought to hold back the tears again. She remembered how soft those lips had been against hers, the warmth of his touch, his ardor when they made love…It was impossible that he wouldn't survive this, wouldn't live to kiss her again, she thought.

Sam left after a few minutes to check on John, and, agitated now, Allison toyed with her cell-phone, contemplating calling House. A dose of normalcy, to keep her from totally losing it to the insanity she'd been thrust into. But she didn't really have the focus to be any help to House or their current patient, and she knew it. And she also doubted that calling House was 'safe' at the moment. She'd been using payphones ever since that initial call on Dean's cell, but that had worked fine because they'd never stuck around long after she'd made her call. Now, no longer being mobile, she didn't want to risk calling from a payphone and having the local cops turn up ten minutes later to arrest Dean (if he ever woke up) and his family.

Just thinking about House and her life back at PPTH made her feel even worse. All of sudden, she remembered what the Demon had said to Dean, leering the words through John's face: _You think she's in love with you? Nah. She loves her boss. But her boss is too much of a wimp to take advantage of her willingness to spread those white thighs for him, so she settled for you instead._

Hadn't some part of her thought that very _same_ thing when she'd first started dating Dean? That he was just acting as a stand-in for the man she really wanted? She didn't believe it any more – didn't think she did – but…

What if _Dean _believed what the Demon had said?

She found herself back against the rough, splintery wall, and she couldn't move. Not an inch.

Dean's father stood in front of her, leering at her with flaming yellow eyes. She couldn't see anything else. The rest of the room around them was a dark rushing blur. She couldn't see Dean or Sam. Were they even there with her?

"Allison," it purred, velvet and gravel. "Sweet Allison."

She couldn't move, couldn't fight. It sidled closer, licking its lips. Where _are_ you, Dean? she screamed silently inside her head.

It kissed her, its mouth shockingly hot and wet, and she was both revolted and suddenly – horribly – excited. No, she wouldn't give in, she _wouldn't_.

She felt its fingers on her body, sliding up to slowly work the buttons of her shirt open. Searing eyes glanced down, admiring her bared skin. She was caught between a squirm and a shudder of revulsion.

It smirked, the curve of its mouth a disturbing echo of Dean's. "Are you liking this, Allison? I think you are. I can _smell_ it on you."

The hot fingertips trailed downwards, then started to undo her jeans, and she felt a sound rising in her throat, scream or plea for help or a moan…whatever it was supposed to be, it died before it left her lips.

"I know what you want," it whispered, slipping its burning hand along the skin of her belly. "And I'm going to give it to you." It pushed its hand lower, to the waistband of her panties.

No, she wasn't going to let it do this, she _wouldn't_. She shoved against the force holding her, with all she had-

She woke up with a start, her face wet.

There was a hand on her head, stroking her hair gently. In a blind, confused panic, she almost batted it forcefully away.

"Al, it's OK," a voice croaked. It sounded like Dean's voice.

She suddenly remembered everything. Which included leaning over in her chair and resting her head on her folded arms on the side of Dean's bed. She must've fallen asleep.

"Dean?" she asked stupidly, hardly daring to look up, in case she was hallucinating the whole thing. Or still dreaming. But yes, it was him, he was awake and watching her. Obviously concerned about her.

Concerned about her? _He _was the one who had been close to death mere hours ago.

"Yeah," he answered. "Are you OK, Al? You were moaning in your sleep."

She shoved the unwelcome dream-images away, wiping at the moisture on her cheeks. Sweat or tears, either way, she didn't care to know. She took Dean's hand carefully between hers, and found it already warmer, stronger.

"I'm fine," she said. "The important thing is, how are _you_ feeling?"

His hand squeezed reassuringly around hers. "Just awesome," he chuckled weakly. "I'm curtained off with a beautiful woman, a bed, and clothing that comes off easily. Are you kiddin' me? I'm in heaven!"

Fighting back tears again, Allison took his face in her hands and kissed him as hard as she could.

Soon after Dean was moved into a private room, Sam appeared, pushing John in a wheelchair.

Relief crossed John's face at seeing his eldest son awake. "Dean. How're you feeling?"

"Just great," Dean said, hand still wrapped firmly around Allison's. "I'm alive." That was all that was really important to Dean at this point. He was alive, Allison was alive, Dad and Sammy were OK.

"Good. Because we still have a job to do," John said, a determined look on his face.

Dean wasn't really surprised by this. Dad was like a bulldog in that way: once he had a scent, he didn't let it go easily.

Allison was appalled, however. Dean could see it all too clearly on her face, and he squeezed her hand gently, trying to reassure her. But Sam was equally appalled (predictably), and Dean sighed inwardly, knowing he couldn't quell Sam's rebellion as easily as Allison's.

"Don't we have more _important_ things to focus on right now, Dad?" Sam asked, already angry.

"Come on, Sam," Dean tried.

"No, I mean it!" Sam insisted, right on the verge of yelling.

John glared at his younger son. "The job doesn't stop just because we got banged up a little. That family is still in danger. Hell, _we're_ still in danger. You think the Demon is going to give up looking for us, hunting for us?"

"Best defense is a good offense?" Dean suggested.

"Exactly. Your brother gets it, Sam," John said.

Sam just threw up his arms, totally exasperated.

"Sammy, please," Dad said, rubbing his hand across his forehead, his expression changing to one of despair. Dean felt for him, felt for _all_ of them. Like Sam, he wanted to stop this, he really did. But the job was the job.

Dad went on: "Can we not fight? Half the damn time we're fighting, I don't even know why. We're just butting heads. I've screwed up, I've made mistakes. I can admit that. But I've always tried to balance everything out, do right by you and Dean, but also do right by the people we've been trying to save. Can't you understand that?"

"Yes." Sam said, softening, and Dean felt a weight slowly lift off his chest. Maybe Dad and Sammy could get along long enough to pull this off. Because Dean knew already he wasn't going to be in the next battle. Not unless they found a hudu priest to lay a little mojo on him, and heal him up so he could help the two of them kill the yellow-eyed bastard.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Dad said, snapping his fingers. He reached under the blanket on his lap and pulled his wallet out from under it. "Better give them my insurance."

Sam took the card, smiling a little as he read it out loud. "Elroy McGillicutty?"

Dean smirked. "Dude, that's _lame_."

Dad smirked back. "You should talk. You probably gave them a 'James Hetfield' card."

Dean started to wave a hand in dismissal, then stopped as the movement made his wounds ache. "Nah, I used that one already two jobs ago."

Chuckling, Dad turned back to Sam. "Now, where's the Colt? That gun might be our only chance."

"I left it in the Impala's trunk. Bobby suggested it when I called him a couple hours ago - he told me to draw a Devil's Trap on the outside. He said it'd be safe to leave the Colt there," Sam replied.

"Good," Dad nodded. "So, what we first need to do is-"

"Wait," Allison interjected. Dean had almost forgotten she was a spectator to all of this. "Dean's not ready for this. He can barely _walk_."

"I know," John answered, gaze flicking apologetically to Dean. "But it can't wait. So it'll have to be me and Sammy." He paused, frowning, and then locked gazes with Sam. "No, that's not true. The truth is, it'll have to be mainly _you_, Sam. Because I'm not gonna be up for much running on this damned leg."

Sam just stared at his father, mouth agape. "You want me to take on this Demon alone?" he asked at last.

Dean tried to calm Sam down. "Sam, c'mon-"

"I _don't_ want it, no. And I'll be there, with you, as much as I can," John said quietly. "I'm just telling it like it is, son."

"So, you're fine with sending me on a suicide mission?" Sam was fuming.

"Sam!" Dean said sharply. "Don't wimp out on us."

"Dean, Dad obviously cares more about killing this Demon than either of us." He turned and glared daggers at their father. "You're not thinking about anybody but yourself, and your need to kill this Demon no matter what it costs us. It's always the same selfish obsession!"

Here we go again, Dean sighed inwardly.

"You're wrong, Sam," John said, his voice now low and dangerous. "I was willing to sacrifice myself to end everything back at the cabin. Have you forgotten that?"

Dean tried again to calm things down, playing out once more his traditional peacemaker role.

"Guys, come on, can we _not_ do this?" he pleaded. They weren't listening, though. Big surprise.

"Yeah, Dad, let's talk about that. How could you ask me to kill you?" Sam clenched his fists, towering over his father.

"You're asking me _how_? I don't get you, Sammy. This damned thing killed your mother! Killed your girlfriend! _You _wanted to be a part of this! Don't you want to end this thing as much as I do?"

"It was possessing you, Dad! I would have killed you, too."

"Yeah," Dad growled. "But if you'd pulled the trigger, it would all be over now. We wouldn't be sitting here looking over our shoulders, waiting for the Demon or one of its friends to attack us at any moment. The family we came here to help would be safe. As would every other family that the Demon is planning to hit."

Dean sat up in bed, ignoring the sharp biting pain of his wounds. He was getting tired of this. Tired of the same old dog-and-pony-show between Dad and Sam.

"Shut up, both of you," he tried.

They weren't paying any attention.

"So, you're blaming _me_," Sam was snarling, leaning down and getting right into Dad's face now.

"Maybe I am," Dad was saying defiantly.

"Go to Hell," Sam shot back.

Allison watched the whole performance with a kind of disbelieving horror.

Welcome to the family, Al, Dean thought.

"Fuck," Dad swore. "Should never have taken you along in the first place. I knew it was a complete mistake-"

"I almost liked your Dad better when he was possessed," Allison murmured sardonically to Dean. Boy, this was getting out of hand. Was already out of hand, actually. Dean was at his limit.

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Dean yelled as loud as he could. The force of his shout caused sudden red agony to spike through his chest, and he clenched his fists grimly, but it worked. Dad and Sam both stared at him silently, mouths hanging open.

Allison reached for him with a concerned expression, but he motioned her away. "You all might not like how it turned out, but it's _done_," he rasped. "We've got a couple days still, so let's not waste time on the Monday-morning quarterbacking, and just figure this thing out. Before the Demon toasts another family. An innocent family. Or have we forgotten all of that?" He glared at his father and brother in turn, a headache starting behind his eyes.

"If you dudes want to tear into each other, then go away," Dean continued. "_I'll_ come up with a fucking plan. I'm not going to sacrifice anyone else in my family to that thing, but I'm not going to sit by and let it go on killing, either. I'll go kick this thing's ass on crutches, if I need to. So, if neither of you want to act like hunters, go the Hell away." He paused to take a breath. "Besides, you're scaring my girlfriend." He added sarcastically.

Silence reigned for a few blessed moments, and then Sam and Dad grudgingly stood down. From the corner of his eye, Dean could see Allison smirking.

Dude, it was going to be a _long_ couple of days.

"The first step – the very first step," Dean said, turning and looking only at Allison, as if he was completely ignoring Dad and Sam, "Is to figure out which family it's going to attack. We don't even know that yet."

Allison picked up the bait immediately. God, he loved her. "OK, how will you do that? Is there some rule that dictates when and where the Demon will attack?"

"How do we even know the Demon _will_ attack?" Sam interjected, but timidly. "We probably hurt it. At the very least, we gave it a scare. D'you really think it's still going to stick to its plan, show up and flame another family?"

"Don't care," Dean said sharply. "You really wanna take that chance, Sammy? Hell, if we hurt it, so much the better. It'll be that much slower the next time we confront the bastard."

Unwillingly, Sam nodded.

"If we want to know who it's going to hit, we need to find out which families in Salvation have babies that are going to be six months old in the next few days." John put in, answering Allison's earlier question.

"Dad, that could be dozens of kids," Sam jumped in, and Dean had to grit his teeth in irritation again. "How are we gonna know which one's the right family?"

"We'll check them all," Dean said. "But we have to find them first."

"That'll be the easy part," John said. "I checked awhile back, when we were first scouting the area, and there's two hospitals and a health centre in the county. Sammy and I'll have to split up and check the records. Once we have a list, we can figure out the next step." He shrugged. "No point in trying to figure out which family until we even know how many families we're dealing with."

Sam nodded. "OK."

Grimacing, John pushed himself up out of the wheelchair, cautiously putting his weight on his injured leg. "I think I can make do with some crutches, but I'll still have to rely on you to do most of the legwork, Sam."

"Um, excuse me?" Allison said, standing up. "I may not be a hunter, but I can still _read_. I'll go and check the records with Sam, Mr. Winchester. You and Dean can stay here and recover.

John shook his head. "That's a very kind offer, but I don't have a fake ID for you-"

"I don't _need_ one," Allison insisted. "I'm a doctor, remember? I'm sure they'll let me look at the records."

Dean smiled. Way to go, Al. He loved a girl who had the balls (so to speak) to step up to the plate. Though he wasn't going to tell her that – he'd discovered early on how much she _hated _sports metaphors.

John looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "You're right." He turned to Sam. "I've got the addresses of all three places in my pants' pocket, back in my hospital room. You and Allison go check them out, and then get back here pronto. And Allison?" John added, as she gave Dean a quick goodbye peck and started towards the door. "Call me John."

It took hours to comb through all the records, but finally Allison and Sam were back in Dean's room, all of them discussing the next step to be taken.

Eventually, they decided that the best thing to do would be to visit each family individually, and hope that the Demon had left some kind of sign in advance at each place. Flickering lights, deaths of neighbourhood pets, _something_.

Allison didn't hold out much hope, but since she wasn't exactly experienced in this sort of thing, she kept her own counsel. Maybe there _were_ subtle signs that Sam and John would recognize. John didn't remember any oddities occurring before the fire that had claimed Mary Winchester and started them down this road, but maybe there had been signs and he hadn't noticed them at the time, not without someone there to call his attention to them.

Dean was outwardly supportive of what his father and brother were doing, but inwardly he was fuming. He'd give anything to be in Sam's position, to be able to blow the Demon a new asshole with the Colt. But he wasn't even close to being healed up enough to do that.

John insisted this time that he be the one to do the legwork, checking half the twenty-two families on the list, so Allison and Dean were finally left alone together again, while he and Sam canvassed the list of potential Demon targets.

She assessed Dean critically for a moment, falling briefly into doctor mode. His colour _was_ better, and he did seem more his old self. Thank God.

He noticed her scrutiny and the worried expression on her face. "I'm OK, Al." He reached over and laced his fingers through hers. "I'm pissed off that I'm going to be ring-side for the big battle, but…" He shrugged but looked very disappointed. Allison sympathized, but after everything she'd seen, she also felt relieved. The thought of Dean dying frightened her badly, and although she didn't want Sam or John to be put at risk either, there was still that part of her that thought _better them than Dean_….

He was still watching her, more intensely than before. She wondered if he was becoming psychic like his brother, and could read her guilty thoughts. "What?" she asked.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing. Just that you've been surprising me lately. This isn't the kind of life that many people can jump into feet-first, but you picked up that gun without hesitation and tried to defend us back there. And then stepping in to do Dad's research for him. I really admire you for it all." Polar opposite of Cassie, that's for sure.

Allison was pleased. "Does this mean you didn't admire me _before_?" she joked.

"Oh, I did," he assured her. "Being a doctor, and keeping up with me in bed, those are both admirable qualities," he smirked. "But….this is different." He hoped she realized he was being serious. That it was no small feat, going from doctor to amateur hunter in mere hours. Especially when she could just have easily run screaming in the other direction.

Allison nodded, but she also remembered the earlier doubts brought on by her nightmare. "Look, Dean," she said, gazing down at his hand, still wrapped around hers. "What the Demon said back in the cabin, about me and House…it's not true. You're not a replacement for him."

Dean shook his head. Figured she'd be concerned about that. "I know, Al. Don't worry about it. Demons lie all the time. Yeah, sometimes they'll tell the truth, if they think it'll screw you up, but…" He squeezed her hand gently. "I know this isn't one of those times." There was no way Dean could see her putting up with all this supernatural crap, not if she really preferred her asshole of a boss to him.

Dean decided he had a pretty good way to reassure her, in fact. He tugged on her arm, drawing her down until he could kiss her. It started off chaste, but then his tongue slid wetly along her lower lip, and with a groan she gave in, letting him inside her. He was almost startled by how quickly she surrendered.

His fingers had soon knotted themselves in her hair, so when he broke the kiss and moved his warm mouth lower, pressing gentle kisses along her throat, it wasn't easy for her to pull away. "Dean, we shouldn't-"she protested breathlessly. "You're hurt!"

"Screw that," he said, muffled, against her neck. "S'gonna take more than a damned demon to keep me from touching you. Besides, haven't you always wanted to do it in a hospital bed? We already struck examination room off the list back at Princeton , so why not keep it going?" He needed to do something, to take his mind off the fact he was stuck in this fucking hospital bed when he should have been out there.

May as well do something _fun_.

"Someone could come in and catch us," she protested, but she was already weakening. After everything that had happened to her lately, this was the one constant, the one thing that was keeping her grounded. Him. And she'd come so close to losing him.

"So, get under the covers with me," he coaxed mischievously. "Anyone comes in, we'll pretend you're….tired and taking a nap?"

"That's so _lame_, Dean," she said, but when he held the covers back, she shook her head and slid under the sheets beside him.

He smirked. "I think the word you're looking for is _suave_," he teased. He drew her closer, kissed her again. The buttons of her shirt were under his fingertips, and he started to undo them.

"_Dean,_" Allison protested, but it was all for show. She wanted this, wanted to forget that they were knee-deep in all this horror.

"Sssshh, baby," he answered, his hands never slowing. The last button out of the way, he slipped a hand underneath the stained fabric to stroke over her skin, trace patterns on the silky surface.

She was wearing the red lingerie he'd coaxed her into buying on their earlier shopping trip. He grinned to himself, and went on.

Allison was _just _this side of ticklish, and his light touches made her arch and clutch at the sheets. He watched her for a moment, enjoying the way her hair spilled across the pillow and the look on her face, her eyes closed but her expression open, vulnerable. He leaned in and kissed her again, more passionately than before, and deftly undid the front clasp of her bra.

Her nipples were hard, tingling, and she couldn't help gasping – he silenced the sound with his mouth – when he wet his fingertips against his tongue and then rubbed them lightly across one of her nipples. "Dean," she said again, when she could, and it wasn't a protest this time.

He raised his hand back to his mouth, slowly, eyes locked with hers. Leisurely, he licked the ball of his thumb, then smirked evilly at her as his hand burrowed back under the covers, his thumb finding her other nipple and massaging slickly against it. His injuries throbbed, but distantly. Something _else_ was throbbing, much more powerfully and pleasurably, and he focused on that.

It was hot under the covers, and it was hard to pay attention, hard to remember that Dean had been badly hurt and that they probably shouldn't do this, shouldn't raise his blood pressure like this. She tried to gather her wits, with the aim of protesting again, for _rea_l this time, but his impatient fingers were at her jeans now, undoing them and pushing them down, and she suddenly didn't have any breath left.

He shoved her pants as low on her legs as he could reach before his wounds protested. Her panties went next, pulled down and left tangled with her jeans. Dean eased his hand between her thighs, marvelling at the soft warmth of her skin, then slid his hand upwards.

All protests forgotten, Allison spread her legs as wide as she could in the confines of her jeans, trying to accommodate him, her eyes and lips squeezed shut as ball of his thumb made contact with her clit.

She was wet, very wet, but he still pulled his hand back, out of the covers, raising it up to his mouth once more. Her scent was on his hand, clinging to him, and it made him _burn_. Deliberately, he moistened his fingertips again, then sent them back down, arrowing in on the most sensitive spots, touching her the way he knew would bring her off.

The blood was pounding in her ears as Dean rubbed and teased her, working a finger carefully into her, and she groped blindly for him, her fingers wrapping around him through the nothing hospital gown and stroking him firmly. He purred, lips against her ear now, his teeth tugging at her lobe, encouraging her.

The heat under the covers was incredible. She didn't know – when her brain was working enough to let her have coherent thoughts – how the bed didn't just spontaneously combust. She squeezed her hand tighter around him, all thoughts of blood and pain and fear forgotten.

Dean wanted her to come hard, and he wanted to watch it happen. Up close and personal. That fucking Demon had almost taken her from him, had almost succeeded in taking _this_. Dean kissed her deeply, and moved his hand faster inside her. He curled his free hand around her breast, the same one the Demon had dared to touch, as if he could somehow erase the remnants of that unwanted contact.

She was gasping now, sharp little breaths that Dean recognized. She was _close, _very damned close. Her hand had stopped stroking him, pleasure making her mindless, but he didn't care. He kissed her again, over and over, his thumb pressing hard on her slippery little button and his fingers – two, now – thrusting smoothly in and out of her.

The heat crested, overwhelming her, swallowing her down. She shuddered, her muscles going haywire, and for just a few seconds, they were no longer in a hospital bed. There were no bandages under the hand she had laid against her lover's chest. No sterile hospital smell as a background. No, for that moment they were in her bedroom instead, on her bed, limbs coiled around each other, safe. It was a potent image, a potent memory, and she held onto it as the orgasm concluded and left her.

Allison slumped, going limp, and Dean gently pulled his fingers out of her and rolled onto his back, pulling her gently against his side. She was sleepy, spent, but he didn't try to rouse her. "S'okay, Allison. You go to sleep," he encouraged her. He watched her drift off, the lines of tension finally draining from her face.

His balls throbbed dully, but it didn't bother him that much. It wasn't the first time. It also distracted from the pain of his wounds, and he didn't think he was up to a teeth-rattling orgasm anyways.

But he soon discovered that without Allison awake and engaging him, it gave him time – too much time - to think about things. Things he didn't want to think about. Like the fact he was going to miss the final fight. The fact that Dad and Sam were out there, doing this on their own, without him. He couldn't even help them find the family, let alone give the Demon a bullet in the eye from the Colt.

Part of him actually suddenly wondered if maybe the Demon was right – that Dad and Sammy _didn't_ need him?

That's fucking ridiculous, he said to himself, as soon as the thought came up.

The doubts proved harder to dispel, however.

Allison yawned and glared at the brown sludge that the vending machine had given her. Even PPTH's worst cafeteria had better coffee than this. She drank a few experimental gulps anyways, grimacing at the taste.

Familiar voices were talking behind her, and she turned to see that John and Sam were back.

"Hey," Sam said, spotting her and coming over. "How's he doing?"

"Fine," Allison said, hoping she wasn't blushing. "He even feels well enough to flirt with the nurses again," she joked.

Chuckling, Sam nodded and headed off in the direction of Dean's room. John came up to her next, slowed by his crutches. "Allison, do you have a second?"

She paused, wondering what he wanted. She found herself tensing, remembering the last time she'd been alone with this man.

Except, it hadn't really _been_ this man.

"Look, I just wanted to say, I'm sorry. It wasn't _me_, of course, not since we rescued you….but I still wanted to say sorry. And to thank you for everything you've done to help Dean, help us. Like insisting we bring him here. He might've died if you hadn't." John Winchester was obviously uncomfortable, not making eye contact for very long with her, shifting a little from leg to crippled leg, but he was obviously sincere. And she was still a 'nice' person (much as that would probably disgust House).

So she smiled at him. "I accept, Mr. Win-_John_," she corrected herself.

He smiled back at her and nodded, then, all business, and started hobbling towards Dean's room. Almost unwillingly, Allison found herself realizing just how handsome her boyfriend's father was.

Jesus. What was wrong with her?

She cut the thoughts off and followed after him to Dean's room, wondering for the first time whether the two of them had been successful in locating the family in question.

"We found the family. Or rather, Sammy did," John said, wincing a little as he lowered himself into the chair by Dean's bed. The same one she'd been sitting in before Dean had seduced her into joining him _in_ the bed, she noticed with a blush.

"How?" Dean asked, eyes going back and forth between his brother and his father. His expression was grave, focused. No joking around or romance now.

"One of my visions," Sam answered, massaging his temple with his fingers, almost unconsciously. "Sixth house I tried, I was standing outside and had a vision. The Demon in a nursery, standing over the crib. And then the mother comes in and gets pinned to the ceiling and cut and burned….just like Mom." Sam paused, swallowing convulsively, and then went on: "Then I saw the mother, the same one, walking up the street, and I talked to her and found out her daughter's six-month birthday is tonight."

Dean's eyes widened. "_Tonight_? Oh, fuck."

"Doesn't matter," John said, and already he was back in battle-mode. Calm and distant, focused on the war to come. Allison almost envied him. "It's time to decide the best way to take the Demon down," he continued. "We're all out of time."

Gregory House was good at multitasking. He could run a differential at the whiteboard, insult his two remaining Ducklings, rub at the increasing ache in his thigh (God, was the ketamine treatment wearing off?), and worry about his missing Duckling all at the same time.

Well, he wouldn't call it worry, exactly. That implied there was something to worry about, and he no longer thought there really was. Cameron had been calling him pretty regularly since her initial phone call. They always talked about the case at hand, and she always seemed calm and composed. A little _guilty_, too, which was rather typical of her. All in all, he was pretty sure everything was OK. Did a terrified kidnap victim sound like that? Hell, no.

Except for two small problems.

For one, even though more than a week had passed since Cameron's first phone call, House still hadn't told the cops that he'd heard from her. House wasn't even sure _why_ he wasn't telling them. It was a puzzle, except this time _he_ was the source. It grated at him, unsolvable (or maybe he didn't want to solve it) but he couldn't bring himself to do it, couldn't somehow work up the nerve to call Henrickson and let him know he was an idiot (Henrickson, not House).

But the second problem, the thing that had really started the worry (no, not worry - unease, _yes_, that was it) up again, was the fact he hadn't heard from Cameron in three days. When he did feel _uneasy_, he convinced himself it was regarding their newest patient, about the team's ability to find the correct diagnosis. How could they do that without their immunologist, after all?

But he knew, deep down in what passed for his heart lately, that this wasn't the real problem. The patient appeared stable for now, which meant either that their diagnosis was correct, or that the patient was about to have a catastrophic crash (which seemed to happen a lot to his patients) any second, probably complete with dramatic musical accompaniment.

No, he really _was _worried about Cameron, if he would just admit the truth to himself.

Fuck.

Round and round and round the arguments and counter-arguments went in House's head.

Yes, maybe House was in denial and Cameron really was in danger from this pizza boy/Winchester guy, maybe the trashing of her place and the killing of the cop on surveillance _was_ connected to her disappearance…but it still felt wrong to him. Maybe that's why he didn't want to face it.

On the other hand, if Winchester had been forcing Cameron to play some kind of game over the last week, deliberately leading House into thinking she was OK, and now Cameron's silence meant Winchester had grown tired of the game and killed her….well, House couldn't see the point in that. If Winchester wanted to torture House, there were more obvious ways for him to have done it. Like still letting Cameron call House, but making her beg House to save her.

Although House rather thought the current situation was proving to be quite torturous already. If that _wa_s Winchester's aim, this particular method was quite effective.

Round and round and round it goes, and where it stops, nobody knows….but all House knew for sure was that his sense of unease was building.

House put up with it for as long as he could, but finally, he knew he had no choice. House needed to talk to someone. Anyone but Cuddy, because Cuddy would go straight to the cops and House just didn't want to deal with that right now.

Before he knew it, he found himself shoving open the door to Wilson's office.

Jim glanced up, a mild expression of annoyance crossing his face, then resignation. "I don't suppose I could ask you to come back later?" Wilson requested. "I have so much paperwork to do, I'll be here til next Christmas finishing it all."

"You're Jewish anyways, so why do you care?" House said curtly, walking across the small room to Wilson's couch. He noticed with some resentment how Jim's expression instantly changed to one of concern, as House was limping pretty obviously at the moment.

"Is the ketamine-" Jim started.

"It's Cameron," House said, cutting him off.

Wilson looked confused. "I thought she was on vacation."

House sat down and shook his head slowly, rubbing his fingers along the armrest of the couch. That was another reason he'd been considering using his cane again: not just because his leg was getting worse, but because the cane gave him something to play with, to fiddle with, during difficult conversations like this. "That's what Cuddy and I have been telling everyone." House paused.

"But it's not true," Jim guessed.

"No. Maybe. I don't know." House answered. Briefly, he told Jimmy the high points of what had been happening with his female fellow lately.

By the end, Wilson was appalled. "House, you _need_ to tell this Special Agent what's been going on. You see that, right?"

House didn't know what to say. Of course he _saw_. He was perfectly aware of what he was – wasn't – doing.

The real question was _why_.

Why hadn't he sought the cops out, told them everything was OK?

He wanted to stick to the easy answer, the easy argument, which was still that it was only because he'd been afraid that if he did that, Cameron would find out and stop calling, and then their patients would suffer.

But maybe, he found himself thinking unwillingly, the real reason he hadn't gone to the cops was because he'd been afraid they'd shoot holes in his pet theory that everything was actually OK, if a little strange. They'd insist Cameron was being held against her will, and hurt, and yes, being forced to call him. Maybe with the purpose of trying to fool the cops into dropping the case….

If it really was all some sick and twisted game, then House would be forced to _really_ worry all over again. To feel guilty. Just like before Cameron's first phone call.

Was that the real reason - that House couldn't let the cops burst his bubble?

Or was it because he – and they - had no _real_ proof? The symptoms seemed to add up to a diagnosis of Cameron being safe, based on what he'd felt while talking to her. But what if he didn't have all the evidence?

He'd been going by his gut, his intuition, hadn't he? What he'd 'felt' from her while talking to her. Which was pretty laughable, considering House usually prided himself on being cold, hard, scientific.

What if Cameron was on the verge of 'crashing', like so many of his patients? And all he had to do to save her was to tell Henrickson she'd been calling?

But House also knew if Cameron really was in trouble, that he'd be back in that 'unbalanced' state again. Waiting on the edge of his seat, to see if she'd survive this. House knew he didn't want to go back there, didn't want to go back to that. Didn't want to feel the guilt and worry all over again. Didn't want to wonder if he'd somehow been responsible for the trouble she was in.

He was being selfish, he knew that…but wasn't he _always_?

When House stayed silent, running it all through in his mind Wilson continued: "This isn't one of your puzzles, House. You aren't going to solve it on your own! From what you've told me, Cameron's life could be at stake. You need to see the cops about this."

House didn't answer, just shook his head and got up, limping out of Wilson's office. He was paralyzing himself, he knew that, but it was just like everything else in his life; when things got to be too much to handle, he just sat by and did nothing.

Special Agent Victor Henrickson sat in the dark in his hotel room, drumming his fingers restlessly on the file folder on Dean Winchester.

He was _so_ close to picking up Winchester's trail, that he could almost taste it. He just had to work methodically through the next step.

He wasn't surprised that House had been holding out on them. The man might be a medical genius, according to the information Henrickson had been given, but House was an obvious moron when it came to social intelligence. He obviously wasn't taking Dr. Cameron's kidnapping seriously. Hell, Henrickson would've bet that House didn't have the emotional _capacity_ to take it seriously.

But that didn't matter anymore. According to Dr. Wilson, Cameron had been in contact with House until very recently, and that was good. _Very_ good.

All they had to do was wait. Henrickson was not only in the process of getting House's phone records, but a tap on House's phone was next on the list. According to Wilson, House hadn't heard from her in a few days and was getting antsy.

Privately, Henrickson thought that this might signal the end of the road for her, that Winchester might already have killed her. It was unfortunate, but Henrickson wasn't going to get down on himself about it. House had been the one withholding information and slowing the investigation, and if his actions had kept them from getting to Dr. Cameron in time, it was on House's head. Maybe Henrickson could get House on obstruction of justice later, but for now his focus would have to be on tracking Dean Winchester down. He could make House pay later.

If it was even necessary. Keeping Dr. Cameron alive like this was a bit off-pattern for Winchester. So was kidnapping, however. It didn't fit with St. Louis, but on the other hand, so many other things didn't fit either. Credit card fraud, breaking and entering, grave desecrations, faking his own death, you name it, Winchester had done it.

It wasn't like any other serial killer case Henrickson had ever been involved with, that was for sure.

Something in this equation was making Winchester keep Cameron alive – at least up until a few days ago – and Henrickson didn't know what it was. Perhaps it was the presence of Dean's brother and father. Henrickson still wasn't sure how they fit into all this. They'd never had any evidence that Sam or John had participated in the killings, but they were surely involved somehow. Particularly Sam, considering the brothers had been practically attached at the hip for the last year, according to eyewitnesses.

But this also meant that Henrickson had to be careful. If House found out the cops were onto him, he might tell Cameron, either accidentally or otherwise, and that might be enough to send that psychopathic prick Winchester over the edge.

If he hadn't already killed her.

Waiting in that sterile hospital room to find out what had happened, had been as bad as any torture. This could very well have been their last battle against the Demon, and Dean not only couldn't participate, but he couldn't even watch it go down. He could only _wait_, which was far worse than being pinned to a wall and cut to pieces by the Big Badass, in a way. If Allison hadn't been there to talk him down, to distract him, Dean didn't know what he would've done.

But when Sam and John returned to Dean's room, both of them stepping carefully over the line of salt Allison had laid there earlier, he knew just by looking at them that it was bad. That it hadn't worked.

"We didn't get it, did we?" Dean asked. On the chair next to the bed, Allison sat up straighter, her expression one of worry and disappointment.

Brooding, Dad slumped into the room's other chair and didn't answer, as Sam shook his head. Voice dull with fatigue and defeat, Sam started to tell them the story….

_It was uncomfortable, sitting in the car like this with Dad. It wasn't just the knowledge that they were about to face the monster, the Demon that had destroyed their family, and maybe defeat it for good. Kill or be killed._

_It was also that he just didn't know what to say to Dad. Every time they opened their mouths around each other, it seemed, the fighting started. And this time Dean wasn't here to play mediator._

_This really wasn't how Sam had pictured this whole thing ending. He'd always figured Dad would kill the thing alone. Or that Dean and Sam, working together, would take the yellow-eyed bastard down. _

_Never in a million years had he expected that he'd have to team up with Dad on this, without Dean. And that Dad would probably be of minimal help when it came right down to the big moment._

_Sam shifted restlessly. The silence was uncomfortable, oppressive, and finally, Sam couldn't stand it. "This feels strange."_

"_Yeah," Dad answered quietly, eyes meeting Sam's. "Been waiting for this for a long time, and now it's finally here."_

"_Doesn't seem real," Sam added._

_John nodded slowly. "But it _is. _And that means we've got to do our job. That we can't let it get into our heads."_

_Despite himself, despite his own doubts that he was up to this, Sam felt irritated with Dad. What did Dad think he'd been doing for the last year? He wasn't some coddled college kid who'd never held a gun in his life….With an effort, he calmed himself. "This isn't like always, Dad. This isn't like our usual jobs." _

_Another slow nod. "I know." Dad reached out, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezing lightly. _

_Silence fell again, as Sam didn't know what to say. He'd already said goodbye to Dean – or tried to, Dean hadn't been willing to hear it, had insisted that 'Nobody's dying today, not us, not that family, no one except the Big Badass' – and thanked him, and now it felt like he should say something along those lines to Dad. _

_Just in case. _

"_Look, Dad…" Sam tried, clearing his throat. "I know it can't have been easy, raising us like that-" _

"_You don't need to say it, Sam. I know." Dad said, smiling gently. _

_Sam shook his head and went on anyways. "I just wanted to say thank you. And that I know you tried to do the best you could." _

_Dad nodded. "I did. _Tried_, anyways. But let's not go writing our eulogies until we have to, OK Sam?"_

_Sam nodded again, looking out the side window towards the house. Dean wasn't the only one who sometimes got uncomfortable with 'chick flick' moments, though Sam would never admit as much to Dean. Sam had a reputation to uphold, after all. _

_Still, the silence wanted to be filled, so Sam scrambled around for something else to say. He suddenly remembered what the Demon had said to him back in the cabin, while wearing Dad's body. _

"_Hey Dad? You know, the Demon, it said it had plans for me, and all the children out there like me. D'you have any idea what it meant by that?" _

_Dad glanced over at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "No, I don't-" Dad started to say. _

_There was a sudden rush of wind, moaning loudly in the trees, and the lights in the house across the way started to flicker, gutter. The two of them looked at each other, both of them knowing exactly what that meant. "It's time, Sammy," Dad said. _

_From then on, it was as if everything was coming in jump-cuts. Him and Dad at the door, Sam picking the lock while Dad cocked the Colt. _

_The husband attacked them in the living room with a bat, and Sam had to dive in and pin the guy against the wall before he brained Dad. Mr. Holt was yelling, understandably panicked. The guy didn't know that the _real_ evil was about to strike upstairs. Sam did his best to calm him, but it wasn't working. _

_Holt yelled for his wife to go get the baby, over Sam's objections, and that was when the darkness coiled down over Sam's vision. In the core of that darkness was the nursery, and Monica racing in to see the shadowy figure hovering over Rosie's crib. _

_His eyesight cleared in time to hear Monica's scream. Dad shoved the Colt at him, and Sam didn't let himself stop and think. There was no time for that. Dad couldn't run, wouldn't be able to get upstairs fast enough. Sam could. _

_Sam stumbled up the stairs, reaching the nursery an eternity later. He burst in, briefly registering that Monica was pressed to the upper wall, but most of his focus was on the figure by the crib. It locked eyes with him, and suddenly Sam could see nothing but orange flames. Was this what Hell looked like? _

_On pure reflex, Sam raised the Colt, but it felt like his arm was moving through sludge. _

_The Demon was gone, dissolved into smoke between one eyeblink and the next, but it was too late for Sam to stop his finger. He fired, helpless to stop himself, and the bullet went harmlessly, uselessly, into the wall. _

_Monica fell to the floor, sobbing, and Sam tried to scan the room for their enemy and help her to her feet at the same time. It still had to be there, it had to be- _

_But there was _nothing_ there. Monica ran to the crib to get Rosie, while Sam stood there uncertainly. Did he manage to hit it after all? Was it dead?_

_Monica backed away from the crib, then turned towards Sam. "What _was_ that? What just happened?"_

_But Sam was spared from answering, because just then the crib went up in flames, angry orange gouts that rushed up to meet the ceiling and started to engulf the floor around the crib, all in seconds. Sam realized that not only was the Demon not dead, but that they had to get out of there. He couldn't risk the Colt's last – last, goddamn it – bullet on trying to hit an invisible foe. _

_He got Monica and Rosie out of the room and out of the house as fast as possible. Dad and Monica's husband were on the lawn waiting for them. "Get away from my family!" the man yelled, still not clued in. _

"_No, Charlie!" Monica insisted. "They _saved_ us." Clutching onto her husband and baby for dear life, she turned and looked back over her shoulder at Sam. "Thank you. Thank you so much." _

_Sam nodded, but, as if drawn by a magnet, he turned to look back at the house, at the window of the nursery. _

_It was still there. Still in the house. It stood at the window, wreathed in flames, and watched them. _

_Dad limped up beside him, shock written all over his face. "What happened?" Sam had seen that expression on Dad's face before. It was the same one Dad had worn back in the cabin, when Sam hadn't been able to shoot his own father. Not even to kill the Demon. _

"_I missed," Sam admitted. _

"_You _what_?" Dad hissed. "For _God_'s sake, Sammy."_

"_I shot at it, but it's _fast_, Dad," Sam protested, but it sounded weak to him. He'd failed Dad twice, hadn't he?_

"_Please tell me there's still a bullet left," Dad growled. _

"_Yes, but-" _

_Dad grabbed the gun from Sam's hand, then began to limp rapidly towards the house. Towards the inferno. _

"_No, Dad!" Sam raced after him, grabbing him by the arm. Starting to get angry himself. _

"_It's still in there," Dad said through gritted teeth. "And if you haven't the balls to do it Sammy, then by God-" _

_Sam was angry, but he pushed it aside. Dad was being suicidal again, and though part of Sam was tempted to just let him _do_ it, just let all this be over, he knew he wouldn't do that. Letting Dad go back into the house would be no different than shooting his father while he'd been possessed, and Sam wasn't prepared to sacrifice his father. No matter how annoying or accusatory Dad could be._

_Besides, Dean would never forgive him if he let Dad do something so stupid. If Sam stood by and let their family unit be broken up. _

_So Sam took an even firmer grip of his father's arm. "No, Dad," he insisted calmly. _

"_Let me go! This has to be done!" Dad snarled, trying to yank free of Sam's grip. _

"_No! It's suicide, Dad! Just like last time." _

"_I. Don't. Care." Dad spat, emphasizing every word. _

"_Yeah? Well _I_ do. And so does Dean. Nothing's worth getting yourself killed. Not even this. Not even avenging Mom." Sam insisted stubbornly. He wasn't letting go._

_Dad finally stopped struggling to get free, but Sam still didn't let go, in case it was a ruse. A sound came from above them then, a laugh as dark and evil as any Sam had ever heard. They both looked up at the nursery again, and for a brief moment, the Demon was still visible at the window. _

_Then it disappeared, its silhouette whirling away into the rising flames, and in front of Sam and Dad, the porch suddenly collapsed in a shower of sparks. _

_Slowly, but still reluctantly, Dad began to limp back towards the street. Sam didn't let go until they were both back at the Impala. Once there, he let go at last, but he didn't look at his father. "I'm sorry I fucked this up for you – twice – but it's not worth your life, Dad. We found the Demon once, we'll find it again." Sam said, but he wasn't sure how convincing he sounded. _

_Dad said nothing in return, but Sam wasn't really surprised. _

_He almost wished he _had _let his father go on his suicide run back into the house._

Sam finished the tale, then just sat there looking at the floor. Dean glanced over at Dad, but Dad was also looking at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but at Sam.

"Dad," Dean said warningly, "Let it go." The last thing he needed was Sammy and Dad at each other's throats. Again. "So Sammy missed. We're fighting a pretty powerful monster here. Did you really think this would be _easy_, Dad?"

For a moment, Dad met Dean's gaze directly, and there was such disappointment and frustration in his eyes that Dean was frankly a little frightened. Who are you, and what have you done with my father, he wanted to ask. He'd always known Dad was 'driven', but recent events had shown that there was such a thing as _too_ driven.

"No, but I _did_ think both of you would be willing to do what needed to be done," Dad rasped. "And that includes letting me decide when and where to lay down my life, if that means this thing will finally die."

"That's insane," Allison piped up, her own voice hard, and Dean was glad to hear her say it. He agreed, he just didn't dare say it out loud to Dad.

John's eyes shifted to glare at her, the uninvited guest. "With all due respect, Doctor, you're pretty new to all of this, you don't know what the stakes are," he retorted, but he was already losing steam.

"Give me a break, John," Allison continued, fire in her eyes now, and Dean had to hide a smirk behind his hand. "I don't care what this Demon thing did to your family. It's not worth you losing your life. _Nothing_'s worth that." She was looking over at Dean for confirmation as she finished, and he nodded in total agreement. Sam was nodding, too.

A united front, against Dad. Three against one, and Dean hoped this would convince him.

"Dad, we're all still alive," Dean pointed out. "The Demon probably wasn't counting on that. And we've still got one bullet left. We can pick up the Demon's trail again, I know we can. We _will_, somehow."

Dad said nothing, just slumped silently, angrily, in his chair. Sam looked exasperated and angry and even – in true Sam fashion – a bit guilty.

Dean sighed and wrapped his fingers around Allison's.

They had to find the demon again. There was no question of that. The only problem was – how?

**OK, confession time: There's no more of this at the moment. I wrote all of this YEARS ago, and after awhile the Muses just seemed to lose interest, and then I had a child, which took up most of my time.**

**But now, my Muses seem to be back in full force - albeit for a new fandom - but I am hopeful that with my Muses back (and with the help of a new beta), that I will finally be able to finish this. Pray for me! ;)**

**And my sincere thanks to everyone who took the time to read this, despite the fact it's WIP.**


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